The Search for Sustained Solace
by iN3PTITUDE
Summary: There reside in Azeroth hundreds of factions, thousands of denizens, and millions of causes for action. Numerous as these motives are, only one dwells in every individual: the search for solace. Not simply relief from the constant conflicts of a world at war - sustained solace. But pleasing as this prize may be, the pursuit of this peace is for some the most daunting trial of all.
1. Curiosity

**A/N: READER DISCRETION ADVISED.**

**EDIT (5-1-14): I combined the prologue and the first chapter, because I no longer saw them fit to be separate, so all of the questions answering the inquisitions of my faithful anonymous reviewer "Question It All" will be moved to the bottom and marked accordingly.**

When it rained in Shattrath, it smelled like fish. Fish and arakkoa incense. The air became so thick that, regardless of whether or not one had the courage to inhale the sardine-scented and pungently perfumed stew of toxins, the smog from the forges and the insufferable humidity created the quite unpleasant sensation of drowning above water.

Koriandris grimaced as the storm crackled overhead, heralding the dawn with the deafening roar of thunder. The mage had been awake for some time, the weather having woken her long ago. A weak beam of sickly, sallow light seeped through the window and bathed her disheveled hovel of a home in yellow, the shaft of sunlight obscured by the thick cloud cover that blanketed Terokkar. Even the sun itself did not seem to enjoy such conditions, as it sagged amid the clouds like the punctured yolk of an egg and appeared to _leak_ light rather than flood the room with its glow.

Tying her hair in a wispy ponytail, she crawled out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a badger roused early from hibernation. Thalrien snored on, his breathing muffled by the pillow in which he buried his face. Koriandris reached for him, intending to wake the slumbering bear of a man, but stopped herself short, realizing that he needed all the sleep he could get. With Shattrath's relative peace, being a haven of neutrality between the opposing Scryers and Aldor (as well as the Azerothian Alliance and Horde that had begun to filter through the supposedly reopened portal in the last couple weeks), the soporific weather, and his short attention span, it would be hard enough to remain awake for the duration of his shift without her dragging him along some early-morning adventure.

The corners of her mouth tugged in a slight smirk as he stirred, his arm searching for her absent warmth beside him and settling for her pillow (close enough in its likeness) as he hugged it close to his chest with a contented sigh. Taking a quill, inkwell, and a rumpled scrap of parchment from the desk in the corner, she scribbled an explanation for her departure that might ease his worry upon the discovery of her absence, her neat calligraphy distorted by haste and impatience.

With a yawn and a stretch, she shuffled over to her dresser, wiping palms damp with the stagnant heat on her wrinkled bedclothes as she tugged at the drawers with some degree of difficulty. (The top drawer always stuck.) Donning a robe of simple red and gold, the characteristic colors of her people, and her heavy cloak, she retrieved her knapsack from the floor beside her bed and left Thalrien with a departing kiss upon his forehead.

* * *

It was by her own choice that she decided not to teleport to her destination, despite the dismal rains and stifling heat of summer. As of late, she'd been trying to reduce her dependence on things of a magical nature, though it had in no way lessened the void that welled within her (much to her disappointment) growing every day as it gnawed at her very essence. Her residence, nearly luxurious for the slums of Shattrath's Lower City (though it paled to comparison to the truly lavish homes of the lands where she was raised, lands for which she longed), wasn't far at all from the southern exit.

Hurrying through the streets to escape the mournful, desolate cries of the beggars and the pouring rain that dripped from the bridges under which she crossed, pooling in puddles of somber yellow-gray on the earth below. She gave her cloak another tug, stretching the leather over her narrow shoulders in an attempt to repel the rain as she neared the gates.

Inhaling deeply as she passed through the towering arches that bade her farewell, her chest swelled in welcoming and gratitude for the first breath of fresh air since the torrential rains had begun, the typically overbearing scent of pine having been diminished by the mist that hung in the air. The ruins of Tuurem were not far away, and it was a wonderful day for a walk.

* * *

Tuurem, formerly a small colony of draenei prior to their conflict with the orcs, had been in disarray since Koriandris' arrival in the Outland, and had recently become inhabited by what she assumed to be a pack of Lost Ones, whom the mage had believed would provide quite fascinating research. However, she was proven quite incorrect upon arriving at the site, as there was not a single Lost One to be found—or at least, not a _whole_ one.

What appeared to be the entire town's population had been massacred in the cruelest fashion, and though the bodies sagged and rotted and crawled with flies that evinced the corpses' age, the air still reeked of fel magic, the foul scent alone enough to bring the elf's blood to a boil. The carnage seemed to be at least several days old, as no viscera soaked the mud below and the meat had been picked clean nearly beyond recognition. What pallid flesh remained was swollen with rain and was hardly distinguishable as that of a humanoid at all; it was only by the broken, charred, and mangled skeletons that she could identify them as Lost Ones.

It was a savage festival of gore, a horrifying bloodbath, and most certainly the work of the Burning Legion. The mage's nose crinkled with revulsion as she probed through the wreckage of the city. Its structures, having been in a poor state before the encampment was pillaged, had crumbled and fallen at the hands of the long-gone demons, reduced to less than dust. It seemed that not even an artifact for her study had survived the plundering—_everything_ was decimated, useless, or stolen by previous visitors (primarily wolves if the obscured tracks in the mud were any indicator).

_Shattered vases and broken weapons are of no use to me,_ thought Koriandris bitterly as she rummaged through the remains of a crude hut, throwing the entirety of her paltry weight against a portion of a fallen wall in order to lift it. She was pleasantly surprised to have found something of potential use: a chest, primitive in its construction, lay crushed in the soggy earth below, its wood splintered and ropey binds frayed. Deep gouges in the wall behind (which for the most part remained standing) would've had her believe that the demons, or demon—and it was certainly a demon, for Koriandris could simply not see these emaciated once-draenei wielding enough power to rend the dense stone like so—who had searched this section was either in a hurry or hasty and impatient, for he had clearly missed what was obvious to her.

The trunk's other contents had been crushed when the container itself was destroyed, merely fragments of the trinkets held within that were evidently of some importance to their owner, but one remained whole, a sickly green glow pulsating from beneath a thin veil of mud. It had been pounded deep into the earth, likely a result of the impact, and though it emitted a rather potent fel taint that warned against her curiosity, it begged to be unearthed, touched, held in the palm of her hand.

Koriandris ignored the niggling doubt, and succumbed to temptation as she always did.

It was a small orb about the size of an apple, a fruit that the mage, shivering and starving and soaked to the skin with rainwater, decided she would've appreciated at the moment. She was rather shocked to discover that, aside from its coat of earth, it was largely untarnished; not a single crack webbed its way across the sphere's glassy surface.

Koriandris narrowed her eyes in scrutiny as she inspected the orb, her stomach clenching as a spark of fear ignited within her gut—the surface was scrawled with jagged lettering that she recognized as demonic runes. Filled with loathing, directed not at the object, but at the memories it roused, she immediately dropped it as if she held no longer held a tiny orb but a smoldering ember. Intrigue seizing her once more, she caught it with a spell of levitation, retrieving it before it fell to the rain-soaked soil once more. Abandoning her decision to forsake frivolous magic, she lifted it further, suspending the sphere before her eyes and beholding it with wonder and disgust as the runes morphed and writhed on the surface, the dim glow muted by the daylight.

_Such an abundant quantity of magic housed within this tiny object, _she mused, wondering if one could perhaps access the immense magical power it housed.

_Absolutely not!_ cried her voice of reason.

_Where have you been for the past five years? _asked another.

The idea of tapping magic from this foreign, obviously demonic object appalled her…almost as much as it enticed her. She wished for more time to analyze it, to study it, to delve into the secrets held within this little…trinket, but as she stood there, sensitive elven ears perceived the squelch of approaching footsteps slogging through the thick paste of mud the ground had become, barely audible over the roar of the rain.

The words of the spell hardly crossed her lips as her skin began to shimmer like evaporating water, crackling with arcane energy as the light refracted around her form, rendering her invisible so long as she remained still. Pressing her back to the outside wall of the dilapidated home, she sucked in a deep breath, closed her eyes in mimicry of the serenity she sought so often, and forced her trembling hands, balled into shaky fists as they quivered with anticipation, to still as the steps slowed to a halt.

Much to the mage's dismay, it was not merely a wolf or a stray warp-stalker that wandered into the clearing, nor was it a remnant demon, as she had assumed to be the worst-case scenario. Instead, a figure draped in a dark cloak (not unusual given the weather) that obscured its shape appeared at the tree-line, proceeding with a jaunty gait as it walked to the center of the town. Despite her desperate longing to know who—or what—delayed her activities of research, the shadowy form refused to face her, which meant she wouldn't be noticed for the time being, but also that his identity would remain hidden from her. She hoped he would hurry along, as she was growing bored with standing here, growing eager to return to her inspection of the demolished settlement, and growing anxious with every moment that passed. Each second that slipped through her fingers was another second for him to notice the plethora of evidence she'd carelessly left behind that suggested her presence, and there was not a thing she could do now to cover her tracks.

The silhouette at the clearing's center, limned in the pale yellow-gray of morning, heaved an abrupt sigh, squatting over the mud as it glanced around the clearing in search of something. Koriandris suppressed a gasp as his head turned toward her—she should've guessed his identity by the characteristic slouch, visible even under his thick cloak, but the boar-like tusks that protruded from beneath the shadowy veil that was his soaked, fur-lined hood eliminated any doubts regarding his race.

Trolls made the elf's hairs prickle. She had learned from the mundane conversations of Shattrath's streets that her people were now allied with the Horde, which meant she was expected to act cordially towards these "Darkspear," but aside from varying bone structures and the thin coat of moss they lacked, Koriandris saw no difference between these and the brutish Amani that plagued her homeland. Besides, she was far too awkward to behave "cordially" to anyone. The introversive mage typically found it much easier to simply avoid conversation with strangers than to try to engage in pleasantries and conform to all the social rituals and expectations of her strict and starched society.

With a rather bestial grunt, he shifted awkwardly, letting the hood fall back as he ran a hand through his matted mane of braided and dreadlocked hair that stood in a stiff mohawk despite the rain. As he turned toward her, gangly limbs and a sparsely clothed body were visible to her, dappled with tiny speckles of darker fur that glistened with water. He was quite savage in appearance, but there was a particular gleam in his cruel, beady eyes that belied some cunning.

"Where are ya?" he called in harshly accented Common. Koriandris' heart plunged as his gaze passed over her, but she dared not move—she couldn't have if she wished to. She suppressed a sigh of relief as the brush somewhere behind her stirred, birthing a rather wiry, roguish-looking lad, a shifty, dark-garbed human who looked like the kind with which she would not associate (most people fell into this category). As he stumbled into her sight, the elf was assured that the troll had not been calling for her, but for this quite suspicious man.

"Ah, right here my kind sir," replied the human, his voice more slippery than an oily blackmouth as he replied with clearly ostensible gallantry. His pockmarked face twisted in a dubious grin that hardly veiled the mischief in his voice.

The troll grunted, clearly not amused, and extended a massive three-fingered hand toward the tow-headed man. "Where is it?"

"Where is what…?" asked the human, the smile never leaving his face as he feigned ignorance.

"Don't toy wit' me, boy. I didn' come here to have a nice chat wit' ya, dat's for sure," growled the troll, lips stretching over thick tusks as he grimaced with distaste. "Where da orbs at?"

"Oh, those little demonic trinkets? I had a scout search the area; he found nothing. I suppose some basilisk admired its shiny qualities and picked it up to take back to its nest."

"Basilisks don't collect shiny tings! You be tinkin' of dragons!" exclaimed the troll, evidently piqued by this confession. The man shrugged carelessly, unfazed by the beast's rage.

_Dragons don't collect 'shiny tings,' _thought Koriandris with a slight frown. _That's just a myth…_

She had always held a fascination for dragons, though scarce were any tomes and research notes on the subject, as few had beheld such wondrous beings, according to accounts. As a child, both she and her sister had spent extensive periods of time poring over even the shortest scraps of information, peculiar only because her idle and indolent sister rarely held interest for things that required such thought and mental effort. In fact, Koriandris had always suspected that she had only participated in the research because of the distress it had caused her mother (the woman harbored quite the contempt for the reptilian beings, a topic of much discussion and suspicion among members of their family).

"Who cares?" laughed the human with another nonchalant shrug. "They're both lizards."

_Also untrue._

The troll, his fury clear in the spittle that amassed in the corners of his mouth, growled loudly, a gravelly sound that reminded Koriandris of the gigantic wolves that roamed these very forests. With noticeable strain, he reduced his voice to a volume that was no longer raised in the shouting of anger, but maintained a venomously low pitch. "So, you…_don't_ have the orbs?"

The mage's fingers tightened over the sphere held in her left hand. Having found it first, she held that she had claim over it, and was willing to flay the flesh from the bones of anyone who disagreed with lapping tongues of flame. Such greed was unlike her (though she mistook it for simple curiosity), but as she realized the toll it was beginning to take upon her, the fel taint that permeated her skin and contributed to the void within her, she decided that she would take it home for Thalrien's inspection. Quite sure in her prediction of his answer, she consented to destroy it if he deemed necessary.

"No, but I fail to see how this is of any concern to me," said the slimy human with a crooked grin.

"Because it's what you was paid ta do!" the troll roared, pulling a crude dagger of whittled bone from beneath his cloak and raising it menacingly above the human, who ducked away immediately.

"Well, then I suppose you shouldn't have paid me up front," he said with another smile and a gesture toward the jingling coinpurse at his belt, though his smirk was fading as the gravity of the situation began to dawn upon him. Deciding that the interaction was not proceeding in his favor, he turned to dash away, but he had not even turned to make his escape before the troll was upon him. The beast knelt over him like a lynx over its prey, dispatching the human with a quick, indiscernible movement that left blood mingling with the rain-saturated mud as the human ceased to move.

Eyes wide with alarm, Koriandris stared in horror as the troll retrieved the bulging sack of coins from the man's silent corpse, dumping them into his hands as he counted them. The mage squeezed shut her eyes as the image burned behind their closed lids, the man's twisted grin still stretching his features despite the terror in his dead, dull eyes.

Suddenly, there was a stinging in her arm that felt as if a ribbon of flame had been pressed to her forearm and seared through the sleeve of her robe, straight to the skin, and the muscle below. She discontinued the spell of invisibility, yanking the barbed dart from her arm as she stared at the feathered quill in confusion. Her thoughts thick as if they wallowed through a swamp, her eyes moved with painful slowness from the crimson-tipped dart to the troll who held an embellished river reed to his lips as they twitched in a sympathetic smile.

"I regret dat," he admitted to her as he replaced the blow-dart gun at his side, shaking his head disappointedly. "I hate ta have ta kill ya like dat, but I can't have you trailin' me back to my place of operations. As it stands doh, you are a fine specimen, and I don't tink da Flesh-Weaver has a blood elf yet. You may still be of some use."

Blinking slowly as her muddled mind tried to piece together what had just happened, the ill-tempered mage frowned at the troll, descending into a seething rage at this injustice. A ball of ice coalescing in her unsteady hand, she hurled the sphere of frost at the troll, morphing it as it flew so it took the shape of an icy spear. It impaled itself in his shoulder, crackling and popping as his boiling blood poured over it.

The troll loosed a yelping cry, which contented her as she readied another attack, the spell never becoming manifest as she exhaled a wheezing sigh of finality and dropped like lead to the ground below.

* * *

**I suppose the ending of my chapters has now become " Question It All" time. That's all right, I'm just happy you've taken such an interest in my story. And you said you liked it, so it's pretty much a compliment, right? XD**

**Part One (Formerly Entitled Prologue):**

Question 1.) Why are your characters living in Shattrath? Do they have a reason to live there, or was it just convenient?

Yes, they do have a reason to be living there. I planned to introduce their doings there with more subtlety, but if you MUST know, they're Scryers (blood elves formerly aligned with Kael'thas until, led by Voren'thal the Seer, they discovered the prince's treachery and fled to Shattrath to combat Sunstrider's forces from there). A loosely worded explanation, of course.

Question 2.) Did she just get up and leave? Why? Is she the adventurous type?

Not so much the adventurous type as the curious type. And I have no idea if you've ever been in a house without air conditioning in the middle of a summer storm, but the humidity is insufferable. I'm sure you would've left too, even if it was in the middle of a rainstorm, which I should hope wouldn't faze Azeroth's denizens, given the conflict to which they're accustomed. It would be sad if a little thunderstorm kept them in their houses with the doors locked :P

Question 3.) What is this void you mention? Why does abstinence from magic affect it?

I'll admit that was very vaguely-worded, but I _still_ can't find a better way to explain what I was trying to put into words there. It was essentially a poor reference to the whole magic-addiction deal. Just one of those useless methods those plagued by addiction use in an attempt to cope. So abstaining from magic wouldn't necessarily affect it (though meditation could, if she were a high elf), but she's sort of hoping it would. Does that make sense?

**Part Two (Formerly Entitled Curiosity/Chapter One):**

Question 1.) So she left to research some settlement of Lost Ones? (I had to look that up on my map, so kudos to you for the unique, yet still pertinent, location!) And why did demons attack a random town of Lost Ones? I don't think they could bother anyone if they tried. I do hope there is a reason behind this, not some random loose end.

Yes. I'm not going to put any spoilers in here, so you're just going to have to wait for an explanation for why the demons attacked, is that all right? And as to the research, she's a mage, a scholar. Naturally curious, you know? It wouldn't be uncommon behavior for her. Would you be surprised if Steve Irwin went to the Great Barrier Reef to study sharks? Well, maybe you would, because he's dead T-T but you get my point.

Question 2.) Some random transaction between a shady human and an even shadier troll ends in the protagonist's demise, just because she witnessed it? Why is this? Seems like a bit of an overreaction to me.

There's a reason behind that as well. Like he said, he didn't want her trailing him back to his base of operations. Wasn't going to take the chance that she was some innocent bystander, and they don't have the Witness Protection Program on Azeroth or the Outland. That said, the easiest solution was just to kill her. Before you ask, he took her with him because the name 'Flesh-Weaver' would imply that someone had some devious ideas in store for her.


	2. Dedication

Thalrien tugged lightly at the hawkstrider's reins, muttering a monosyllabic command as the bird came to a halt. He hardly even waited for his mount to stop, the rhythmic swish of the bird's light-footed gait still slowing as he slid to the ground. It sat upon the earth a short distance away, nimble legs folded beneath a ruffled mess of vibrant plumage as it slurped noisily from a half-evaporated puddle and watched its rider with beady black eyes bright with interest.

The elf had visited Tuurem once before, having been dragged there by a fascinated Koriandris who had been far too ardent in her requests to visit the settlement for him to refuse. He recalled little of their account there, as it hadn't seemed particularly special—the primitive little creatures and their crude hovels didn't interest him nearly as much as they did the awed and captivated mage, as he was no aspiring scholar—but it was apparent to him that this was not the original state of the village. Savage as they were, he was quite sure that the Lost Ones did not keep their town in such a state of disarray, with crumbled piles of rubble for homes and the decaying bodies of their brutally slaughtered dead littering their roads.

"…Kori?" he called, his voice thick with emotion, as she clearly was not present. Odds were, she'd wound herself up in some more-than-trivial predicament, unquestionably the result of her infernal curiosity. Though he often tried, he invariably failed to see how she was so enthralled by the idea of the unknown. It was simpler just to accept things in the manner they appeared, and this is how he explained his lacking inquisitiveness despite her astonishment at the concept, flippantly dubbing it the thought process of a dullard.

The jovial glint in his eye dampened by the situation's gravity, he scanned the clearing for any hints that would have aided him in his search: tracks in the hardening mud, any lingering witnesses that could have provided information, discarded or forgotten objects left behind, or anything of that ilk (though knowing his wife to be anything _but_ forgetful or scatter-brained, he doubted that would be a viable option). Sighing dejectedly at his immediate lack of success, he set his jaw stubbornly and proceeded to pace about the clearing at the town's center, hoping to stumble upon some profound explanation for her disappearance (preferably one that didn't involve the danger she inevitably attracted), or perhaps a clue that would incite one such idea.

His dense web of thoughts was suddenly pervaded by an obnoxious squawk from his hawkstrider, which was now at its feet, its brilliant scarlet down disheveled with alarm.

"Hush," he said softly, despite the bird's continuous cries. Hawkstriders were easily spooked, and their panic was generally no cause for concern; he was quite sure that its irritation was only caused by a falling pinecone or something of that trivial nature.

It leapt back in surprise, its slender neck craned toward the adjacent undergrowth as it stood rigid with fear. Unexpectedly bolting in the direction of its owner, it darted across the clearing in a couple of fleet-footed strides, cowering behind him as it screeched once more and settled behind the supposed safety of his armored bulk. Thalrien glared at the pile of roused feathers that had perched behind him, one clawed foot resting on his pauldron for support as it fixed its eyes upon the brush that was the source of its worry. Lips parted with the intention to scold the bird once more for its unreasonable anxiety, he suddenly tensed with apprehension. The words promptly evaporated as he grew silent, a menacing growl from the nearby undergrowth that shattered the silence interrupting him before he could even speak.

Pawing at the hawkstrider's fearful grasp, he shook himself free of the bird's gnarled grip and took a cautious step forward as he peered into the shadowed depths of Terokkar's untamed flora. A singular eye, pale and shimmering like the evening light it reflected, blinked back at him, an icy gaze of cunning that belied its animalistic appraising the elf with nearly overbearing hostility.

Carefully unsheathing the broadsword that was slung across his back in an ornate, leather-bound scabbard, Thalrien slowly lifted the weapon before him in a defensive stance, burdened with reverence as he stared down the flat of the narrow blade. It was a personal rule of his to hold little importance in material and worldly goods, but his sword was his sole exception. Even with its exquisite blade, sharpened and refined by means of magic, and its magnificently jeweled pommel, the sword was no Felo'melorn, but it could've been an enchanted runeblade to the warrior as far as he was concerned.

After several decades in his possession, the blade was still as whimsical and magical as it had been when he inherited it. Being the solitary reason for his childhood desire to master the arts of swordplay and combat (though even now he still clung to the Light as if he were a devout priest), the antique blade was cherished by its owner, especially for the ties to his family that it retained. This was not to say it hadn't been tarnished by battle, by any means. Many a time had it dripped with the lifeblood of his foes, colored glossy with the crimson of mortals, the black, tar-like entrails of demons, and even the brilliant blue blood of the draenei. (This he did regret to some extent, for the peaceful and noble race had never wronged him beyond the prejudice of the Aldor in the city where he resided.) And, many a time had he stayed up far into the small hours of the night, cleansing the blade of warfare's taint as he polished it fastidiously in the dim light to remove every stain, scrupulous and meticulous care leaving the blade flawless: not a single notch sullied the blade's immaculate surface.

If it could not be avoided, the weapon would taste blood once more. It was Thalrien's preference to attempt peace before resorting to violence, but as the beast exploded from the brush with the suddenness of a flock of birds roused from their perch, it became quite evident that a fight was unavoidable; even the eloquent elf could not persuade an animal to shy from the hunt.

The great cat lunged not at Thalrien, but at his shrieking mount, razored claws outstretched like the talons of a falcon diving for its prey. It snapped at the hawkstrider, its dagger-like fangs clamping on air as it snapped and swiped in succession at its prey. The bird immediately fled to the edge of the clearing, flanked by the gigantic feline, who was followed itself by the elf.

The cat ignored Thalrien, the icy gaze of its singular blue eye fixed intently upon the bird as its lower jaw hung unhinged with hunger and yearning, the white fur of its muzzle matted with saliva. It took the thin leg of the hawkstrider in its mouth, scarlet that matched the bird's brilliant plumage beginning to seep from the wound as its screeches reached their peak. Much to Thalrien's dismay, the colossal tiger didn't even kill his mount to ease the struggle in its passing. It promptly lay upon the ground, gnawing at the spindly limb with voracity that hinted at the magnitude of the beast's starvation. It was as if it were too enticed by the immediate prize to fool with the rest of the kill.

The saber only relented when Thalrien plunged his blade into its flank, wheeling around with a roar of pain that freed the bird from its grasp. It gave the wound a hasty lick or two before retreating backwards, hackles raised defensively as it crouched low to the ground. The hawkstrider's cries ceased abruptly as it limped to a comfortable distance of two or three yards away. Apparently finding it too difficult to continue, the bird crumpled to the ground with a despondent sigh, appearing quite forlorn as it buried its head in its rumpled feathers in acceptance of death.

Hissing like a housecat, the beast swatted at the elf, the ineffectual attacks more defensive in their purposes than intending to harm him. Seeking to grant it the merciful end it had denied his beloved mount, Thalrien struck at the saber, his blade burying itself in the corded muscle between the cat's shoulder blades, where the neck became spine.

Spittle spattered his armor as the tiger writhed and roared in pain, a sound that echoed in the distance even as the moans of agony continued. But it still refused to fall, the stubborn beast. Instead, it leapt to the side, tearing itself free from both the weapon and the leather collar that had snapped during its struggle and pouncing heavily on the immobilized hawkstrider, both animals encumbered by their injuries.

The bird loosed a terribly ghastly cry, the spawn of sheer terror, but it was not even allowed to grieve for its injuries, the squawk giving way to a pitiful gurgle as a pair of fangs like daggers sunk themselves into its slender neck. The tiger's tail lashed ferociously as it lifted the bird by the partially consumed leg and proceeded to drag it away from the site of the slaughter, moving with surprising swiftness for one so hindered by deep wounds and the weight of its prey. Grunting softly with every movement, it loped away, the prize held in its tow enough to make Thalrien's heart ache.

All that remained was the leather band that had once hung around the tiger's copiously furred neck, dyed dark with the blood that soaked it. Cursing, Thalrien ground it into the earth with the toe of his plated boot, suddenly straightening as he stared at the dirt in awed surprise. Shallow tracks, close enough in resemblance to those of his wife who he sought, were pressed into the claylike mud below, hardening in the crisp evening air. Much to the elf's delight, they led him in the direction in which the tiger had disappeared.

He smiled to himself as he followed the impressions in the dirt, noting the intermittent dribbles of blood; finding Koriandris was his priority, but it would please him some if he were to avenge his fallen mount in the process.

** Question It All**

Question 1.) From what I've gathered, this is the random man that she kissed upon leaving her home in Shattrath? And he is actually her husband, who knew where to find her because...?

She left him a note! I expected you to be more on top of things! Get with it, man!

Question 2.) When The Burning Crusade was released, warriors were not a playable race for blood elves. That said, if he 'clings to the Light and it's teachings' or whatever, wouldn't that make him a paladin? So at what point in time was this set? Pre/Post-Defeat of Kael'thas? Pre/Post-Defeat of Illidan? I mean, it has to be some time during The Burning Crusade, correct?

To be technical, during this period warriors weren't playable, and to be lore-accurate, paladins did not exist (this is prior to the defeat of both Kael'thas and Illidan: for a frame of reference, the Dark Portal _just_ re-opened, and people from Azeroth are _just_ beginning to trickle through and share wonderful news of war and strife with the isolated inhabitants of the Outland). However, I'm pretty sure if we were to go about this logically, we could reach the verdict that blood elf warriors were plausible. If not, he can just be some weird, heavy-plated, juggernaut of a Farstrider. Does that suffice?

Question 3.) Where did this tiger come from?! There are no tigers in Terokkar!

No, the tiger is not native to Terokkar. There will be more on that later.

Question 4.) So it just happens to leave in the direction that he the tracks in the mud say his wife went/was-taken-but-he-doesn't-know-that?

That ties in with Question 3. When the tiger's location and existence are explained, the direction it chose will be as well.


	3. Inquisitions

**My apologies once more for the long intervals between updates. In all honesty, this chapter is long enough to be split into two, but I thought that would look a little choppy, so I kept it as one. Critique and suggestions (or elaboration if I wasn't clear enough, as I know I'm not sometimes) is welcomed, so don't forget to review! **hint...hint...****

The first thing Koriandris noticed was the smell. She'd yet to open her eyes and already her surroundings horrified her, the acrid scent of death nearly smothering her as she gagged on the odor. Indeed, she was encircled by more death than she'd seen in a long while, as she sat upon a throne of wilting flesh, spongy and bruised with age.

Bolting upright, she stared in revulsion at the dozens of corpses that rotted beneath her, riddled with flies and maggots that swarmed and wriggled beneath skin pale with death. The mage drew a hand to her blood-drained lips as her stomach roiled like a vat of boiling water, the stench and the sights proving enough to bring about potent nausea. Blood and excess viscera littered the earth below; there was not a square foot within the borders of the cramped canvas tent that was pure of miscellaneous remains from the morbid scene. She almost wished to retch, as if it would give the spirits of these desecrated carcasses some comfort to see that _someone_ was disturbed by their ghastly state, as the one who had collected them here clearly was not, judging by the conditions and quantity in which they were kept. However, she gave only a great gulp as she steeled her resolve and rose with a grimace from the pile of corpses.

Whatever horrid hobby this abhorrent collection of bodies proved to be, she had no desire to seek its source, or whatever had brought them here. For once, she found her curiosity uncharacteristically satisfied. Instead of the typical enquiries and questions swirling about the mad tempest of emotional turmoil that was her present mind, her frayed nerves, unraveled with distress, tried to piece together a plan of escape. It was obvious that she'd been brought here by an outside party, as she didn't sleep-walk (as far as she was aware), and the idea that she simply didn't _remember_ arriving here was implausible, as she forgot nothing. And if her environment was any indicator, she was not brought here as a gesture of good will or benevolence.

Even more appalling were her failing spells, as even the most meticulously cast teleportation spell refused to develop to fruition. Upon further review, she discovered that spellcasting from every school was hindered by what she assumed to be the same source, to no avail. But she set her jaw stubbornly and abandoned her pursuits in that unproductive matter, deciding as she rose from her macabre seat that she was determined to escape her fate here; she could decrypt the mediocre counterspell or curse or whatever hindered her casting abilities when she was in a safer, more familiar location.

Cringing as the stiff limbs of the deceased bent under her weight, however paltry it may have been, she crept across the morbid scene, somewhat relieved when her bare feet reached solid ground (solid perhaps was not an apt description, as even the earth enclosed within the tent's walls had been permeated by rainwater and was rather spongy). She frowned at the sludge between her toes with confusion, wondering where her shoes, and most of her clothing for that matter, had gone. The scarlet burn of chagrin lit her cheeks aflame as she realized with overwhelming embarrassment that she was dressed in nothing more than her frayed undershirt and the tattered trousers she'd worn beneath her robes for traveling purposes.

Eyes already wide with humiliation stretched even wider as she stiffened with sudden surprise at the noise at the edge of the tent.

"Ah, good to see you're awake," said the thin soprano of a recognizably female voice, shrill and starched with austerity despite that she spoke in Common, a tongue Koriandris had always viewed as rather unrefined and primitive. Though she preferred it to the guttural grunts of Orcish, which could hardly be called a language, it was always her own tongue that she favored. Nothing compared to the smooth syllables of the elven languages, which themselves reminded her of flowing water.

_Brilliant,_ she thought bitterly to herself, tugging at the ragged sleeves of her shirt in a vain attempt to make them cover more of her arms. _Because I'm such an advocate of public indecency._

The woman - a human of the palest shade, as if she feared the light of the sun - reclined in the corner behind Koriandris, appearing unnervingly at ease in spite of her surroundings. Garbed from head to toe in robes of black and muted crimson, she wore a rather shady expression that suggested she would not be an individual whose company the mage would prefer. Cold eyes like anthracite glittered amid jagged stripes of dull scarlet ink that marred her face like a pair of identical livid scars; for one who took the time to study such matters (as there was no subject unworthy of exploration in the mind of the elf), the tattoos were easily recognizable indications of one's affiliation with the Twilight Cult. If Koriandris had to make a guess, she would say this was the 'Flesh-Weaver' the troll had mentioned.

Her brow furrowed in a nearly imperceptible frown as she contemplated what motives could bring the Twilight Cult to the faraway Outland, or what they could possibly want with _her_ of all people (she could not arrive at a plausible conclusion). The mage and her husband led a relatively quiet life, and the only quarrels they held were with the irritable pair of refugees that occupied the neighboring hut, who claimed that living in the slums of Shattrath was bad enough without constantly having to fear that a stray fireball would light their home aflame, or that a hapless shard of ice could shatter their windows at any given moment (fears that were unreasonably placed, as Koriandris rarely practiced her spells outdoors, and she was far past having to rehearse such menial spells as fireballs and frostbolts). Temperamental as they were, she doubted they were involved with any cults, let alone the infamous Twilight's Hammer Cult.

"Let me put to rest your confusion," began the woman, smiling with ostensible courtesy as she rose from the mass of bodies upon which she had been seated and proceeded to answer Koriandris' unspoken question. "The ink that scores my skin is naught but a remnant of my former profession, and no longer holds any significance to my occupation now. That is not to say you shouldn't be worried, as the contingency here for intruders is not generous, but I left the ranks of the Twilight Cult years ago."

Koriandris frowned, brows flat with indignation as she crinkled her nose with frustration. _Intruder?_ she echoed incredulously, wishing to voice her protest, but her mouth was as dry as a hill of windswept sand, arid with nervousness. She most certainly did not come here by means of her own volition, but the anger at her injustice could do nothing but silently curse her social inhibitions.

"Well, I suppose circumstance dictates that you aren't technically an intruder, but according to the one who brought you here, you did witness a transaction between a member of our…organization"—she paused here, as if searching for an accurate term—"and therefore must be treated accordingly. Besides, an interrogation is long overdue."

"…why?" asked Koriandris meekly, staring at her feet as she spoke and chiding herself for her timidity. Despite her attempts at volume and assertiveness, she invariably resembled a chastised child in conversations with strange folk (both the cause and result of her awkwardness in the presence of strangers).

"Nothing personal of course, as these situations rarely are, but the possessions found on your person would have us believe that you're likely from a rivaling association," the woman explained matter-of-factly. Koriandris' expression was no longer one of irritation, but of perplexity.

"Don't be coy," she snapped in reaction to the mage's puzzled frown. "What else could you have been doing with that object, one that _we_ sought?"

"Pardon?" Koriandris asked, genuinely confused by her accusation. She flinched as the woman moved towards her, lifting her arms before her face to shield herself from any impending strikes that could result from her unintentional insubordination. The human did not hit her, but instead stopped inches before the mage's own face, so uncomfortably close that she could feel the woman's cold breath on her cheeks.

"I don't take kindly to fools, and I dislike those who keep the façade of them even more so," she told Koriandris, her voice threateningly low. "And though I hate repeating myself, I will ask once more: what else could you possibly doing with the object that we sought?"

The mage was certainly no fool, but if it would irritate her captor to act one, then act one she would.

"Th…you must mean that orb," Koriandris nodded, stuttering awkwardly as she groped for words. Common was as familiar to her as her mother tongue, her race—former race—having been associated with the Alliance during the time which she was born, but even still she struggled to convey her thoughts, inhibited by her social awkwardness.

She received no answer but an eye-roll of exasperation.

"W-well, you must know that members of my race are…attracted to items of a magical nature."

"Your race?" she repeated mockingly. "And what is that? I've yet to meet any half-elf mongrel that cares for anything of the arcane, and I've encountered quite a few."

Given her opinion on the matter, she had surely only made the acquaintance of a half-elf raised in the societies of humans, but Koriandris hardly cared to press this, as she was too mortified by the comment to speak in return. The careful act she'd been planning was shattered as she tensed with embarrassment, averting her gaze and wondering if her questionable heritage was so evident.

"Bah," said the woman, breaking the silence as her features contorted in a cruel smile of excitement. "I'm ruining the fun. Bristol's supposed to be the one to ask the questions. Let us see him!"

Eagerly grabbing the mage by the arm, her grip rough with zeal and callous disregard for her wellbeing, she dragged her from the canvas confines of the tent into what appeared to be a gigantic campground. She nearly choked on the air, which was crisp as a summer night should be, but quite thick with the odor of charcoal and burning wood from the many campfires whose dim glows dotted the elf's vision as she was hauled behind the woman, mere pinpricks of light to her unfocused and blurring sight. She was still stunned by the woman's audacious comment, but it was not the Flesh-Weaver's brusque words that were responsible for her unresponsiveness, hardly conscious as she was even as this woman hauled her along haphazardly like a goat by the horns to some unknown (and surely unpleasant) destination. Her vision morphed and wriggled before her as if covered in a film of rippling water, her surroundings melting away before she could even think of protesting.

(Visions of this nature weren't uncommon occurrences for Koriandris, but given their tendencies to take place under conditions of overwhelming stress or fear, they were more often than not inconveniently timed. However, she would've preferred any of these visions of inevitable happenings to come to the nightmares that plagued her resting hours.)

_"Luck is such a fickle thing, is it not?" asked the shimmering golden entity before her, whose skin glittered like light itself as it leaned down toward her, the movement casting a spectacularly dazzling array of reflections on the cavern's surrounding stone walls. Its mammoth head enveloped all of her vision as it stared at her from eye-level, large orbs of emerald (larger than her head, in fact) blinking slowly as they assessed her like a warrior would gauge the value of a weapon. She shrank back despite herself and her defiant nature, slowly receding under the beast's omniscient gaze, only to find that the cave's stone walls betrayed her, leaving her nowhere to escape, should she find the need._

_"W-who are you?" she asked, straightening her shoulders and setting her jaw. "What do you want with me?" _

_Its scaly lips stretched in a terrifying grimace revealing rows of dagger-like serrated teeth that made her pray that this gesture was a smile and not a sign of displeasure. A crackle like thunder shook the cavern, and even the rocks seemed to tremble at the might of this monster's laughter, falling from the ceiling and clattering as they rattled on the stony floor._

_"Do I amuse you?" she continued, crossing her arms indignantly as the head moved closer to her. It exhaled, an action that wrought a pair of smoky tendrils from its nostril and bathed her in the scent of burning sand (a peculiar odor that she hoped would not linger on her clothes). _

_"Very much, little elf," it replied, grinning again. "Or…not-so elf...but where was I?"_

_"Prattling on about luck," Koriandris muttered quietly, knowing full well what he meant by 'not-so elf,' but too afraid to request an elaboration, worried it might incite a sermon._

_"Yes, I remember now. I remembered anyway, but I just wanted to test your patience," it said, sounding slightly disappointed. _

_"I've none to test," she told him, inspecting her nails, which were caked with sand from the region's relentless sandstorms. _

_"But on luck," he continued. "It is quite a queer concept…"_

_She suppressed the sigh that accompanied the premonition that a lecture was inevitably imminent. _

_"It seems to act as a sentient being, gifting those it favors with luxuries beyond imagination, and shunning those it deems unsuitable so that the crawl through the shadows of life, always hungry, never quenched…it is bad luck that births malevolence. There aren't many souls who were purely born evil, but a poor fate could condemn anyone to a tainted life. Luck doesn't hold any discrepancies between the rich and the penniless. A rotten roguish fellow could one day be slinking about the gutters of a city, then the next be sitting a throne of pilfered gold. And in the week following, it could be stolen from him by his own ilk. Luck…it acts almost as if it has itself a mind of the mortal world…do you know why this is?"_

_"No…" Koriandris answered, staring into the immense depths of the bronze behemoth's all-knowing eyes. "Because it practically _is_ the sentient being I mentioned it as before. Do you know what controls the flow of luck…fate…time…?" it asked now, maintaining the same slow, leisurely pace in his speech, as if he had all the time in the world…and she suddenly understood…_

The sharp sting of a slap wrenched her from the realm of dreaming and delusion and knocked her into the cold confines of reality with the force of a sledgehammer. Blinking in surprise, Koriandris drew back, staring at the brutish man before which she now stood (or knelt rather, as she had been bound at the wrists and ankles in a terribly uncomfortable position). The human was clad in thick wolf pelts (recently cured if the smell suggested anything) that were draped around his brawny form in the crudest manner and wore a rather menacing expression that matched that of the decapitated head that rested on his shoulder, likely belonging to the same wolf that served as his clothing. Both heads stared at her with glittering eyes hard with hatred she swore she didn't deserve, one dead and one alive, though for all the coldness in their glares, there didn't seem to be a difference.

"Do you plan on doing that again?" he asked, his lip curled in a derisive sneer as he crossed his arms across his broad chest. "Because whatever it was, no one here has time for it." The human gestured behind him with one hide-covered hand, stepping aside to reveal a surprisingly large crowd of some fifty people (at least), the source of the murmurs Koriandris had heard but paid no heed.

Both she and the man stood upon a towering scaffolding of wood, probably only some twenty feet tall, but for the mage, who was had a fear of heights of an intense magnitude (a magnitude she would never have admitted), it was a deathtrap. Her hands balled in fists of terror, she peered warily over the flimsy platform's edge, instantly pulling back as a gust of wind sent it swaying. Pale with the fear whose presence she wouldn't allow to sully her impassive countenance, she jerked backwards as her nervous gaze darted between her captor and the treacherous ledge.

"You know how these go, don't you?" asked the man, grinding teeth that were yellowed and fanglike, as if his animalistic nature didn't end merely at his attire. "I ask you a question, you answer. Nothing too difficult, but in the event that I didn't make it easy enough, if you refuse, I will not hesitate to extort the information through physical means."

Koriandris frowned, wondering how she would reply to their questions, since she obviously lacked the answers they sought. Noticing her confusion, the man barked with laughter, running his fingers along the sheathed dagger at his side with foreboding intentions.

"No? You don't understand?" he asked, still laughing as derision and haughtiness mingled on his features. "Well, to put it simply, if you won't to answer, I'll make a—you see this dagger? Yes?—I'll make a little nick in those nice pointed ears of you. This is why I like doing elves, such an easy method of torture…but I digress. If you lie, I get to make a nick in your ear. If you're belligerent or express insubordination, I get to make a nick in your ear. If I don't deem your response sufficient, I get to make a nick in your ear. If you make me _look bad_, I'll…I actually might just cut off the whole thing. Nothing that will bleed too profusely, I promise—interrogating a subject that's delusional from blood loss would be counterproductive. But I believe my explanation was quite clear, so shall I begin?"

Koriandris swallowed, giving the ground one last wary glance before returning her attention to the human before her. It was her preference that her ear (or if at all possible, both) remain whole, but if he appealed to the more stubborn and indignant portion of her disposition, she feared her reaction would lead to something undesirable.

"Depending on your behavior, you may or may not resemble _this_ by the time we're finished," he laughed, tugging at the notched and scarred ear of the wolf whose head was draped over his shoulder. Koriandris grimaced, staring at the canine's glass eyes, dull and clouded as they were with lacking vitality. She hoped she would _never_ resemble that gruesome horror, and also that she could avoid seeing another wolf for the rest of her life.

"Now," he continued, not lingering on the pleasantries (however unpleasant in their nature). "Beginning simply: who are you? And what possessed you to interfere with the business of our organization? Are you a part of some opposing party?"

Koriandris blinked in surprise, unsure of how she would explain to them her innocence when anything she told them would be assumed to be the dishonest excuse of a guilty individual. Besides, she considered speaking in front of a crowd this large practically preposterous.

"Are you sure that's how you'd like to answer?" asked the man, brows raised with what almost appeared to be eagerness. The crowd rumbled in response, the nondescript faces that formed the mob blending to form one writhing mass of twisted and malevolent excitement.

"I…I'm Koriandris…E-Everstride," she said quietly, not sure if his dull ears would even recognize her speech.

He chuckled at her discomposure, the mocking mirth of the crowd's identical response quite vexing the already irritated mage.

_The audacity,_ she thought with a frown. _Unjustly convicted for some crime, I know not what, and they have the nerve to _laugh_ at my misfortune._ Koriandris had met demons with more decency than this (though these would normally be the ominous amalgams of shadow known as voidwalkers, and they were only 'decent' because they said next to nothing).

"Got a bit of a speech impediment, do you not?" he asked, a cruel grin twisting the jagged scar that ran across his stubbly cheek.

"Not would I would call it…" she mumbled, maintaining a glare despite that her head was inclined downward in a gesture that revealed her awkwardness.

"Hah, shy then, are you?" he pressed, the haughty glint in his eye so potent it made Koriandris want to gag.

"Just skilled in deciding which ones are worth wasting my breath upon," she replied tartly, her irritation spawning uncharacteristic eloquence.

His laughter ceased abruptly, and pain flared in the elf's cheek before she even recognized that she had been smacked once more. Dabbing at the blood that welled from her split lip with hands tightly bound, she glared at him, wondering how long he would scream if she burned him from the inside out. However, given present circumstances, this was not a viable option. It would be best if she just suppressed her anger until this whole scenario had transpired—if she was cordial, perhaps they would release her—but anger was always the hardest to repress.

"Insolence is tolerated neither in my subjects nor in my prisoners," he growled, his black stare acquiring a rather bestial semblance.

_Subjects? _thought the mage, wondering if he was perhaps some self-appointed monarch (as surely no one would elect a man of such intolerance as their ruler).

"I will ask once more for an explanation of your presence, and I should hope you have enough sense to answer."

"I was _kidnapped_," Koriandris answered bitterly, her words pointed despite their lacking volume.

"Got the tongue of a snake, do you? You may not be inclined to speak to these 'unworthy' you mentioned, but I would watch your step were I you; you tread upon thin ice," he warned, his raised dagger glimmering with hostility in the flickering light of the nearby torch.

"What a p-perplexing situation...to receive punishment for both the truthful answer—however resentful it may be—and the false one of which I was warned," she muttered nearly inaudibly, avoiding his gaze as his shadow engulfed her once more, some form of discipline undoubtedly imminent. She could only pray that he was still not near enough to see how she trembled.

"What business have you here?" he asked, his voice a raucous snarl.

"N-_none_," Koriandris insisted once more, despite his continued disbelief.

"Then what could you possibly have been doing in the possession of the specific object requested by our client?"

Koriandris hesitated, her tongue like a lump of lead in her mouth as she struggled for words.

"I…" she began, finally resorting to an excuse she hated to claim: "I'm sure you're aware of this, but I'm not the only member of my race that is…drawn to objects of a m-magical nature." He gave a sharp laugh, one that evoked a short-lived roar from the crowd, who seemed to be all but completely ignorant of how the interrogation had thus far proceeded, basing their reaction solely on that of Koriandris' torturer.

"And what race would that be?" he asked, his inquiry startling her once more, as it wasn't typical for her mixed parentage to be so noticeable through a simple conversation such as this. "Don't look so surprised," he continued, noting her shock. "You were given a thorough inspection upon your arrival—purely protocol, I assure you—since we were all curious as to how you survived your encounter with Mazra'fon"—the elf assumed this to be the troll who had so inconsiderately kidnapped her—"and his lethal poisons. You should've seen the lad, so confused! 'Refined dragon's blood! Dat dart shoulda killed anyone wit' even a scratch!'"

His rendition of the troll's accent was astonishingly accurate.

"And my sister, being somewhat of an…expert…on Azeroth's varying species, concluded that it was impossible for you to be purely of elven ancestry," he explained, gesturing to the black-robed woman who stood at the foot of the scaffolding, naught but a shadow in comparison to the darkness of night. Koriandris recognized the unique tattoos, the timeworn ink giving her cheeks a dull shimmer as they reflected the moonlight—this was the one who had brought her here, prior to her nightmarish vision.

"In fact, I was quite hoping that some way to weave that into my questioning would arise, as I myself was quite curious. So, all things aside, what race would you claim?" he asked, an agonizing ending to his short speech.

Koriandris stared at her knees, the ragged linen that covered them threadbare and smeared with earth.

"No answer? Not even to such a trifling question?" he asked, feigning awe as he dropped his square jaw with a gasp of bewilderment.

She did not answer because she did not know, but she accepted the penalty for her silence with grim determination as he lifted her painfully by the ears like one would grab a long-eared hare. Pressing his blade to the soft cartilage, he sawed a 'nick' (as he had referred to it several times) into both, the air stinging as it brushed the fresh wound.

"It could've been avoided," he reminded her, his voice bearing infuriating simplicity, as if it would have been easily escapable. "But if you want another, it could be arranged."

Managing the contemptuous glare she had inherited from her terse and quite often vicious mother, she narrowed her eyes at the man, barely able to keep the stare steady as the blood that trickled down the back of her neck threatened to pull her taut lips into a grimace. It was difficult enough to keep her voice steady, to keep the pain from her voice, to keep herself from collapsing into a pathetic pile of whimpers and pleas for mercy.

"I s-should think such matters would…would be regarded as _personal_, but if you must know, my m-mother was an elf, so I suppose that makes me one," she answered, her compliance far from voluntary.

It in fact did not, but her father was not mentioned much within her family, so she had no further explanation to offer. She had been reasonably curious as a child, but as the years stretched onward, still yielding no answers to her endless questions (and no visitations from said long-departed father), she finally grew to accept it, deciding that she had had more fruitful endeavors to pursue.

"Hardly," he replied coldly, but he did not press the subject, returning to topics that were of more vitality to him. "But I'd rather know what you hoped to accomplish in your attempts to undermine my organization."

He had brought up this "organization" multiple times now, but had yet to elaborate on its intentions, and how exactly Koriandris had threatened them.

"…I can give you no answer if you won't accept the truth I have already offered," she told him, her voice scarcely louder than a whimper, though it did not quaver with the doubt of a liar. Of course she spoke honestly, but his reaction to her accurate response was far from friendly.

Knocked to the thin planks of the scaffolding by a booted foot, Koriandris gave a soft grunt as he held her to the creaking wood with all of his weight pressed upon her right shoulder. Shifting uncomfortably, she squirmed out from beneath him, wrinkling her nose as the blood from her ears spread to her hair, matting and dragging the strands of red about the back of her neck like a macabre paintbrush that, if her skin were the canvas, spun a winding and web-like masterpiece upon it. The irritating tickling that resulted seemed trivial as he tugged at the rope that bound her wrists, forcing her upright as she leaned precariously over the edge of the platform.

Koriandris gasped, her eyes squeezed shut in terror as the wind sent the scaffolding swaying once more.

"Oh!" he remarked, sadistically pleased by her fear that was no longer concealable. "I believe we've found a better form of coercion, haven't we?" The throng below murmured in response, a couple of individual cheers rising from the body before it returned to the silence of its intent observation.

"I can feel your pulse," he whispered, his malicious grin widening like the painted face of the court-jesters in the palaces of humans.

Her breath a series of rapid, sporadic spurts, she clawed fearfully at the rough hands that held her in place, for if he were to release his grip, or merely falter, she would surely topple over the edge, plummeting to the ground to break her neck upon the hardened soil below (if her hasty measurements were correct).

"So would you be more inclined to answer if I…" he concluded the sentence with a spasmodic jerk that nearly dropped her straight to the ground below, prompting a sharp gasp from the mage as she forced her eyes closed once more so he wouldn't gain the pleasure of watching them widen with terror. Forcing down the nausea and intolerable dizziness, she pitched forward, not caring if she landed in his arms. In fact, she hoped it made him quite uncomfortable.

Suddenly realizing that he was supporting his unstable prisoner, he dropped her to the platform below with a thud. "Useless," he muttered, lifting her back to a seated position.

"Now, it seems that—" he began, interrupted by the startlingly strident voice of the woman he'd earlier mentioned to be his sister.

"Bristol!" she exclaimed, mercifully drawing his attention from the mage while she regained her composure, even if she lacked the means to hide the reddening tips of her ears whose tips were colored with embarrassment at her pathetic display of fear.

"What?" he replied coldly, lips curled as he glared at her shapeless form below, nearly invisible against the darkness below.

"We…we've got another one," she called back, sounding quite confused herself as she made a gesture with a hand that signaled for the something that exceeded Koriandris' limited vision.

"Another _what_?"

"Another captive."

Koriandris was vaguely aware of the pitiful hitch in her breathing as her shoulders jumped in a succinct breath of not fear, but sheer dread.

They held by the arm a bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed, Thalrien, his brow knitted in confusion like it always did when he tried to decipher the reasoning of unjust motives.

"Thalrien!" she gasped hoarsely, her voice hushed with necessity.

"Ah, so you know this other intruder? Your accomplice, perhaps?" asked the human, returning his attention to the mage who stood before him. "Hmm…let us see if we cannot break two wills with one blow…"

** Question it All**

1.) So...she's being held hostage because she mistakenly picked up some demonic orb out of pure curiosity, which just so happened to be an object of question in this organization (which...doesn't have a name?) and they decide to publicly interrogate her for it? Do they not think this the least bit irrational? I'm assuming you're trying to go for some sort of savage and sadistic appearance, because those that find such things pleasurable normally are viewed in that way.

They were intended to be savage and sadistic, hence the fur garb and cruel comments. And irrational would be an apt description as well. You're on the right track, but I'll try to make the characterizations more plain and evident in the future.

2.) I'm not a shy or awkward person, so I can't really use myself as a reference here, but the protagonist has trouble speaking to people because she's timid, correct? Or is it the latter, like Raj Koothrappali from the Big Bang Theory where she can only talk to certain people under certain circumstances? Before she encountered any strangers, she didn't seem shy at all, in my opinion. Is there a reason for this conflicted persona? I mean, I'm not opposed to it, because if anything it adds depth to the character, this inner conflict, but I would still like to know if that was intended or if it was a mere fluke.

I can sort of see how it would be like Koothrappali, and I love that you made that reference. That's one of my favorite shows! However, I would say it was more major shyness than true selective mutism. Speaking to a stranger would be difficult and terribly awkward under normal circumstances, but it isn't as if she is physically...er, mentally?...unable to do so. Obviously she CAN speak, but seeing as it would be quite uncomfortable for her to do so without reason (reason in this case being primarily fear and indignation) she would avoid doing so when possible. Emotional instability would play a part in those with which she would speak as well, but I'll elaborate on that later. I don't plan to spoil anything here.

3.) Is she still in Terokkar? Did you ever specify?

No, I did not specify. I thought it could be assumed, but I can now see how that could be confusing. My apologies. Yes. They are in Terokkar.

4.) So Thalrien is the man from the chapter prior who was searching for the protagonist, and I'm assuming they caught him because he simply wandered on to their premises? Or did the tiger that he was following lead him there? Also, if he is the warrior you describe him to be, why does he not just kill his captors outright to avoid imprisonment?

Yes, he is, and his capture will be explained later. I implore you to have patience, please. I'm getting there...slowly but surely. As for not killing them outright, that would exceed the comfort of his morals. While he is a capable warrior, he would not simply act rashly and decapitate someone without reason, which could be viewed as a flaw for someone of his occupation. And given that his reason to fight them would have been that they bound, gagged, and blindfolded him to take him to their place of operations, it would likely have been too late for him to attack any of them once he had been provoked.

**I also feel that I should add something about the visions, as it must undoubtedly seem to the third party that they are simply a cliche way for someone that struggles in making unique characters to embellish their creations, but I swear I have a better reason than that! Decide if you will if the characters aren't unique (I make a point in making them at least somewhat 'average,' as extravagant heroes tend to bore me, but I don't try to make them _bland_), but any prophetic premonitions that plague the protagonist are merely foreshadowing. (Albeit somewhat cliche foreshadowing, but once again, bear with me. There's a reason.)**


	4. Martyrdom

Koriandris was quite familiar with the feelings associated with anger and rage, but the fury of her temper flares never ceased to astonish her.

"How could you?!" she called to her retreating jailer, pressed to such hysterics by the circumstances that her question nearly resembled a cry, a plea that they provide some explanation as to their motives so she didn't have to believe that Thalrien's torture had not been completely unjustifiable. It didn't even cross her mind that the rants and insults directed at her captors were completely incomprehensible, as they were versed in neither Thalassian nor the stammering and stuttering slur of indignant curses she had concocted.

She stood between a horribly beaten Thalrien and a slamming door, flanks heaving with ire as the lock clicked into place, enclosing the couple in a fortress of stone.

"…Kori…" he mumbled, the syllables separated by labored breaths.

She whirled to face him, her wrath suddenly evaporating as her gnashing of teeth came to an abrupt halt. Her lungs failing her, she found herself gasping for air, reeling with hyperventilation as she struggled for words to describe the abuse that had befallen him.

"Th…Th…" she stammered, her sporadic respiration making it impossible to articulate a thought. Her composure crumbled as she reached toward him, trembling fingers wiping a rivulet of crimson from his forehead.

He had been stripped of the armor he bore with such pride, left in nothing but the linen he'd worn underneath, tattered and stained as it was from his encounter with his torturer's blade. Blood flowed freely from the scores of horizontal slits that marred his flesh, broadening wine-red ribbons running the length of his torn tunic where the smooth skin had been split and rent by the hand of his tormentors. The streaks of maroon continued to spread even as the elves stood speechless, tainting the crisp white fabric of the shirt, which Koriandris had bought for him not days prior.

"You fool," she said, staring at the ground in an attempt to hide the tears that welled in her eyes. "Why didn't you fight back?"

"I thought they might harm you," he answered plainly, as if the answer should have been clear to her.

"You should've…why couldn't you have…?" she asked, tugging desperately at his tattered tunic, as if she implored to travel back in time to impale every one of them upon his blade. "Thalrien…" She simply repeated his name, finding that she had nothing else to say.

"Conflict cannot expel conflict, Koriandris," he told her, drawing her into his reassuring embrace, however rigid he was with the discomfort it caused him. "I was pitifully outnumbered—by retaliating, I would have only guaranteed our deaths. If receiving abuse at the hands of the unjust is what it takes to ensure our survival, then bleed and bruise and crumple beneath their weapons and taunts I will. However, I would _not_ do so while blubbering and sobbing with woe or self-pity, and nor shall you."

Lifting her chin with a hand slick with blood, he dabbed at the solitary tear that lingered on her cheek.

"Self-pity?" she repeated, nearly incredulous, though she was far too concerned with his state to be upset with him. "Would you prefer that I not be worried for your sake?"

"Actually, it's rather refreshing to see you show some emotion for a change," he teased, leaning against the wall with a pained sigh, as if supporting his own weight with legs littered with cuts and bruises had become too much for him to bear.

She glared at him, managing to remain expressionless for only a brief moment before her façade cracked, a smile tugging at her lips. It took only seconds for the situation's gravity to sober her once more, the profusely bleeding laceration at his hairline drawing her attention.

"What are you doing?" he asked, maintaining his blissful, childlike interest despite the circumstances. He watched intently as Koriandris tore a strip of cloth from her shirt, figuring the tattered garment to be far beyond the condition for the missing fabric to be of any concern.

"I can't look at all this blood," she explained, dabbing gingerly at the wound on his forehead. "It's making me dizzy."

He cocked a quizzical brow, causing her to smear his forehead with red.

"I don't recall you ever being weak-stomached," he said, ignoring the glare he received for hindering her progress.

"I'm not," she assured him, folding the scrap of cloth once more as she turned her attention to another wound (they were plenty in number, despite his lacking concern). "But it's sickening to see blood unjustly spilled."

"Especially in such quantity," he added in observation as he frowned at the sticky and stained mess his neatly starched shirt had become.

Koriandris cringed painfully at his comment, however devoid of concern it was. She paused, the cloth still held to a leaking wound as she averted her gaze, suddenly wracked with encumbering guilt.

"I'm so sorry…" she blurted, abruptly shattering the silence with her apology.

"For…?" he asked, a singular brow raised in perplexity.

"For that. And that. And that." She indicated several of his more pressing injuries, biting her lip as she stifled a sob of regret. It wasn't possible for her _not_ to feel responsible for his condition, for it was her own actions that had brought them here.

"You say this as if you inflicted the pain upon me yourself," he said, assuming a tone of reassurance. "But if I were to take a leisurely walk past twilight and were mugged by a thief, who would be held accountable—me for my unwise decision and poor timing, or the thief for its faulty ethics and dishonest behavior?"

Koriandris frowned at the hypothetical situation's implausibility.

"That's unreasonable; you would never—"

He waved a dismissive hand, grimacing at the stiff movement, like that of a rusty hinge. "All overthought arguments aside, it's probably safe to say the thief would be blamed in most instances. That said, is your curiosity at fault for our capture? Or would the depraved actions of these highly suspicious individuals be to blame?"

Koriandris sighed, feeling only somewhat consoled by his logic, though she knew he would not have held her responsible anyway. She nodded understandingly, resuming the ceaseless task of cleaning his wounds.

"I'm tired," said Thalrien suddenly, punctuating the thought with a long yawn.

"I'm sure you're just bored," she teased, offering an affectionate smile as she brushed aside a couple strands of blond that had drifted free from the blood-matted tangle of his hair to fall across his forehead.

"No," he insisted, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child. "I feel…exhausted."

"How could you possibly be concerned with sleep when covered in such a grave manner of gashes and lacerations?" asked Koriandris, concluding her question with a sharp gasp as Thalrien suddenly pitched forward, collapsing in her arms and mumbling incoherently about nausea as his wife struggled beneath his weight.

"Need to…sit…" he managed, speech evidently a struggle for him.

She laid him upon the cold stone of the floor with an undignified thump, despite her efforts to do so gently, and knelt by his side, eyes wide with irrepressible worry.

"…more serious than I thought, I guess," he said with a frown, his words slurred with the onsets of unconsciousness.

"Thalrien!" she scolded him, gingerly running a hand over the long stripes of red that ran the length of his back, the shape of which leading Koriandris to believe they'd been inflicted by a switch or some similarly crude instrument. "Why would you…I can't… How would you expect me to tend to your injuries if you won't even acknowledge them?"

"…not that bad…"

"Obviously they are, or you wouldn't be lying on the floor right now, unintelligible and semi-cataleptic and…and…" she couldn't bring herself to utter any more words that admitted his dire condition.

"…what happened to your ear?" he asked, his words hardly decipherable as he gestured toward the dried blood that lined the gap in the cartilage of her ear.

"Nothing with which you should worry yourself, now if you—" she said dismissively, tugging at his shoulder as he rolled onto his stomach so she could mop up the blood that still welled from the wounds on his back.

"Hypocrite," he interrupted, scarcely managing a whisper as he closed his eyes and drawing his first steady breath in some time as he succumbed to the cold grip of unconsciousness.

"Thalrien?" she asked, quite confident that she would receive no reply. Pursing her lips with internalized grief, she tore yet another strip from her ragged shirt as she dabbed at the brutally sliced flesh, grateful at least that he wasn't awake to endure the pain. He would by no means have shown it, but judging by how the cloth clung to the wound, it would've been far from pleasant.

Concluding her makeshift mending with an exhausted sigh, Koriandris scanned the dungeon's darkness for any bedding, though she doubted their captors had the decency to set out a nice down mattress or blankets for their prisoners. In fact, the cell was scarcely furnished with anything but chipped stone; it seemed they hadn't even bothered to _construct_ a prison, finding it easier (and cheaper) just to carve a one-roomed jail in the bedrock below the earth.

They were enclosed entirely by stone. Moist, moldy walls of stone around them, cool, clammy floors of stone beneath them, and a dank, dripping ceiling of stone above. The bare ground below offered no comfort to her aching bones, sore from the chaos, and all that was provided for bedding was the stale straw strewn across the floor, which had accumulated in the corners, and a musty pelt that was ragged and lumpy with age.

Rising from where she knelt at Thalrien's side, she inspected the hide (which had belonged to a clefthoof, if the smell was any indicator), only to drop it with a gasp. Several brittle bones, dry and bleached with age, clattered to the floor below with an eerie rattle, a plume of pale dust rising from the splintered remains as they fractured on contact with the hard rock below. Discarding it with a gag of disgust, she threw the matted fur aside and pawed through the damp hay to see if even the slightest portion was dry enough for use.

Heaving a sigh of exasperation, she kicked at the useless pile of mold and decaying plant matter and settled for the use of Thalrien's arm as a pillow, which she decided wasn't terribly uncomfortable as far as pillows went. Nonetheless, she remained awake for a long while anyway, stricken with worry and panic that she swallowed with determination, as well as the cut in her ear that made laying her head upon anything somewhat painful. And even when sleep came to her, it was by no means pleasant…

_Koriandris grimaced as she pressed at the fractured bone in her forearm, aligning it with its other half that was made visible by her tattered flesh. She could hear the slow, deliberate footsteps approaching even as she knelt in the grass, frantic with urgency. Biting her lip to suppress a yelp of pain, which would surely lead her pursuer to her position, she tore a strip of crimson cloth from the sleeve of her robe, tying it around the broken bone in a makeshift splint._

_Rising from the ground with a muffled grunt of effort, she stared in horror at the ghastly mess she'd created. A seemingly impossible quantity of blood soaked the weedy grass below, the dark fluid glistening in the silvery light cast by the twin moons that hung full in the sky above. Simply glancing at it made her feel faint, and her consciousness threatened to abandon her where she stood as darkness rimmed her sight, clouding her vision with its obscurity._

_The heavy footfalls grew louder, and she could now see the brush at the edge of the clearing quiver as it was trampled beneath cloven hooves. Acting quickly, she gripped her injured arm, crying out in agony as she lit it aflame, scorching the cloth and the flesh below to cauterize the wound and end the trail of blood that would surely have led to her demise. But demons didn't need a trail of breadcrumbs to stalk their prey—of this she was well aware. They were beings of malice, and the torment of their victims was as natural to them as breathing. Still, if there was the chance that it would aid in her escape, she was going to take it._

_The underbrush suddenly gave a violent shudder as from it burst a doomguard at least twice her size, bare across the breadth of its wide chest and browned by its exposure to the corruptive fel flames it wielded. It bellowed in rage, viscous droplets of spittle tossed from its maw like a fountain of venom and sizzling as they landed upon the grass below. Shaking its massive horned head, the demon allowed the green flames within its claws to dissipate, reaching instead for the nearest sapling and yanking it from the ground, roots and all, with as much effort as one would pull a weed. The young tree glowed in the darkness, crackling as the demon bared its yellow fangs in a twisted grin of cruelty and with its mere touch ignited it with lapping tongues of fire._

_Suppressing a gasp of fear, Koriandris hurled the remains of the fireball at her assailant and stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the hem of her robe as her vision morphed and swayed before her, the faintness likely attributed to the blood loss and shock. Giving the monster one last glare of revulsion, the mage bolted in the opposite direction, ignoring the branches and twigs that clawed at her like desperate fingers and implored her to take them with her to avoid the body of fire and destruction that followed close behind._

_The foliage too was her adversary, thickening as it progressed, and slowing her considerably more than it did the demon that followed closely behind, roaring once more with enthusiastic anticipation as it neared her. __She came to an abrupt halt as a conifer with a base the size of a small building towered over her, the gnarled trunk that blocked her path seeming to sprout from nowhere, so sudden was its appearance. Panting heavily and clutching her aching sides, she turned to face her inevitable doom, expecting to see the demon's face not inches from hers, blackened lips split in a hair-raising grin and eyes alit with jade flames the color of fel corruption. Instead, she found nothing but the mangled web of undergrowth through which she'd torn gaping back at her, drooping in the moonlight as if grieving its wounds._

_There was a deafening bellow from somewhere in the more distant brush, followed by the horribly unmistakable sound of flesh being shredded, that terrible squelch like sinking a knife into a side of venison, and a sharp crack like a lead rod being fractured—the breaking of bones. A shriek of agony tore through the unsettling tranquility as the demon claimed another life. The elf's heart lurched as she recalled who her only companion had been that night. _

_"Thalrien…?" she whispered softly, as if hesitant to disturb the silence that ensued. She received no reply but a distant cry of terror, an incomprehensible noise of sorrow that carried on the wind._

"Thalrien?"_ she repeated, only slightly louder, still afraid to disrupt the stillness…or perhaps afraid to receive an answer. She leaned back against the enormous tree, not permitting herself so much as a sound of mourning; her chances of survival were slim already without her thoughts clouded with emotion. Staring at the blurred pinpricks of light that dotted the night sky, Koriandris bit her lip, recollected her resolve, and clenched her fists in defiance (or rather, clenched her left fist and received a indiscernible twitch from the fingers of her right)._

_Adjusting the strap on her backpack, she began picking through the exceptionally thick plant growth that surrounded the base of the gargantuan pine, the same particularly dense foliage that had not seconds earlier prevented her escape. She muttered to herself as she stormed to toward the forest's edge (or where she believed it to be), trying to restrain the gathering rage that swirled about her mind like a tempest, anger and hatred at her pursuer whispering terrible ideas in her ear, all of which would eradicate the demon in the cruelest manner._

It will die,_ she told herself as she marched through the thickening brush. _But not quite yet.

_The demon _would_ meet its end within the hour, but she couldn't allow rash decisions to rule her as she typically did. Not if she wanted to survive in her attempts._

What does it matter if you live or die, if Thalrien's already gone?_ another voice asked, causing the shapes of green and gray before her to twist and writhe as her sight swam in the brimming tears that returned. A reasonable thought, as it was a plausible possibility that he had been her sole remaining relation, but still an imprudent one._

_"You're a fool…" she thought aloud, not sure if the comment was directed to herself or the uncontrollable emotions that rampaged about her mind. Brow furrowing in a frown of confusion, she continued to trample the thick weeds and bushes beneath her less than agile feet, wondering why the forest grew denser rather than thinning as she reached the end. She halted suddenly as her sigh of disregard morphed into a gasp of shock._

_The forest finally gave way, ending unexpectedly as if someone had cleaved away the rest of the foliage with a blade, and not two yards from where she stood, the ground disappeared as well, like the strike intended for the forest had missed at first and sheared away the earth before it hit its mark._

_Green eyes wide with fear, she regarded the cliff with terror, heart pounding in her ears as she dared to peek over the edge of the bluff. She leaned back quickly, exhaling slowly through her nose in an attempt to calm herself and quell the uneasiness in her gut, which roiled with nausea. Despite the overwhelming discomfort the drop-off cast upon her, this was the spot she selected. This was where she would wait for the demon, the soulless monster, the black-hearted wretch (the epithets continued in that manner, becoming more and more obscene in their succession). _

_This was where she intended to avenge Thalrien._

_Yanking her sword (which she hardly knew how to wield) from its sheath and trying not to glance at the blade that cast her reflection in the silvery moonlight, as she looked quite deplorable at the moment, the mage thrust it into the ground, driving it deep into the earth with vigor she had no idea her scrawny limbs possessed. And there she sat, smiling cruelly with the knowledge that the tables had turned, with her predator now assuming the role of prey. She would bide her time, sure that the demon would find her here as it had found her before. All she had to do was _wait_._

But waiting was the hardest part.

_Minutes passed with the slowness of years, each one seeming to arrive after longer intervals than the last, and all the while she practically twitched with anxiety, overcome with the rampant emotions to which she'd finally succumbed. She tried to amuse herself by weaving a tiny ember between the fingers of her left hand, but that only led to boredom, which led to the realization of how exhausted she truly was, in addition to the fatigue from the blood loss._

_Koriandris allowed her eyes to close as she leaned against her sword, clutching the injured limb that now retained no feeling past a dull ache, numb with cold and shock. The worry of falling asleep never crossed her mind, as too much had occurred in the past hours for sleep to even consider gracing her troubled consciousness._

_"Kori?"_

_The mage's eyes flashed as a ball of fire coalesced in her palm even before she rose from the ground in preparation for a fight._

_"Th—Th…" she stammered, allowing the flames to dissipate as she swayed slightly, the shock of his presence too much for her to withstand, so she just stood there, extremities tingling with eagerness. She wanted so much to go to him, at least to reach for him, but the sudden twinge of hope sent a sensational wave of feeling through her body, reminding her of the debilitating pain in her right arm, so she just stood there in astonishment, gripping her arm with unintended fervor and biting her lip in response to the pain, so hard that she swore she tasted blood._

_"…alive…" Koriandris murmured softly as he hugged her, so tightly she felt as if her ribcage would buckle. "You're alive…" _

_Draping an arm around his neck, she entwined her fingers in his blonde tresses already tangled with twigs and leaves from his midnight peregrination as they were, ignoring the unusual coarseness of his dirt-streaked cheeks, pocked with scratches from the thorny brush, as she rose to the balls of her feet to kiss the forehead she feared she never would again._

_"And in much better shape than you, it seems," Thalrien surmised, leaning back as eyed her disfigured limb. _

_"Was it that obvious?" she replied, forcing a smile to accompany the comment, though the pain and the darkness put it somewhere between a suffering grimace and a sheepish smile, as if she were ashamed at this display of weakness. He mimicked her expression, making a face that reflected similar emotions, and nodded grimly._

_"What happened?" he asked, gingerly lifting the mangled mess of flesh, bone, and charred fabric to his eye level, tensing as Koriandris cringed, biting the inside of her cheek uncomfortably. _

_"Are you—" he began, eyes glinting with worry._

_"I'm fine," she assured him, her tone more indignant than she'd intended. He didn't draw back as she'd expected, but instead gave her a glance of warning, a silent caution regarding her unruly temper. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she collected her composure and gritted her teeth against the inevitable pain._

_"May I?" asked Thalrien, tugging at the knot she'd tied to keep her crude bandage in place. Wincing with anticipation, Koriandris gave him a quick nod, forcing her tensed shoulders to relax as she looked away from the mutilated limb that had once been a working, fully-functional piece of her body._

_The wound was far more dreadful without the adrenaline that dulled her sense of pain._

_The tattered skin, having once been pale with smoothness and completely unmarred, was shriveled and charred, the frayed flesh that lined the injury practically disintegrating with its exposure. The pronged bones of her forearm protruded from the skin where they had fractured, blackened and scorched like what skin remained. Thalrien swallowed hard and glanced skyward, muttering a soft prayer under his breath._

_"What happened?!" he exclaimed as he assessed the gravity of the wound with thinly veiled horror. "Light, Koriandris, you look like a dragon licked your arm!"_

_Koriandris stole a quick glance at the injury, immediately turning away and forcing herself to suppress the gag that ensued as her knees wobbled and her mind swam with regret._

_"Don't be ridiculous," she told him, wetting her lips anxiously as she avoided his gaze. "Dragons breathe fire; it isn't in their saliva."_

_He rolled his eyes as he continued to analyze her arm, eyes narrowed with examination as he inspected the splintered bone. _

_"You haven't answered my question," he reminded her as he worked, glancing expectantly at her through the tops of his eyes._

_"The wretch caught me in close-quarters, not long after I was separated from you. Of course, given my lacking coordination and the size of my opponent, I was largely outmatched. It was his grip that shattered my bones. His hands alone," she explained with an inward shudder. "I was lucky to escape with my life…"_

_"I'm still waiting for you to explain how your arm became blackened like a side of venison," he told her, now rummaging through his knapsack in search of some remedy for the pain._

_"Well, it bled like a punctured wineskin and I couldn't have the demon tracking me like hound, nor could I remain conscious with the quickly increasing amount of blood I was losing…" she began, grimacing with distaste at her actions. However necessary it had been for her survival, it had been a horribly grisly task, but at least the seared nerves allowed for less pain._

_"You lit your own arm aflame?" asked Thalrien, pausing in his actions to stare at her, jaw unhinged and cheeks pale with stunned horror. Even hearing the words made her feel as if an icy hand gripped her spine, sending tendrils of bone-cold chills up her backbone. He received no answer but the distant trill of insects in the forest and the soft whine of the breeze that blew over the ridge._

_"Here," he said softly, handing her a sprig of withered leaves that hung limp and sagged with age as they quavered in the wind. "They're old, so they may lack potency, but they should alleviate some of the pain."_

_She grimaced at the ancient herbs, holding the flimsy branch between her thumb and forefinger and nearly gagging at the odor as one detached itself from its kin, fluttering through the air like a crippled butterfly to tickle her nose, which twitched at the foul scent._

_"I…would rather not," she admitted, wondering how similar the taste was to the odor._

_"Kori," he pressed, catching the free leaf as it drifted past his shoulder, the wrinkled surface seeming to shrivel further as its plans of escape vanished. "Please?"_

_"Ah, no thank you. It doesn't even hurt anymore, really," she assured him, the pained tug at the corner of her pale lips belying the falsehood of her words._

_"Don't be stubborn," he told her, his expression firm and adamant despite the waver in his tone that neared pleading. "I know compliance is difficult for you, but…please, do it for me?"_

_"Fine, I concede," she mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze as she stared at the earth below her feet and tensing uncomfortably every time a throb of pain radiated from the wound, beating in accord with the irregular thump of her heartbeat. "But if you ever speak of this again, I swear on the shores of the Sunwell, I will not hesitate—"_

_"Just eat the herb, Koriandris," he interrupted, giving her an exaggerated blink of mock exasperation and flashing ivory teeth that glinted silver in the moonlight as a smile graced his lips._

_Squeezing her eyes shut and crinkling her nose like an elfling that refused a serving of vegetables, she plucked a leaf from the herb's fragile branches and grimaced as she chewed it. It took all her restraint not to spit the saliva-covered fragments of the disgusting plant upon the dirt below, but the gagging and coughing that ensued was irrepressible._

_Koriandris was about to make a comment regarding the leaves' flavor (somewhere between stale bloodthistle tea, which acquired quite a tart tang after too much exposure with the air, and the cake her mother had attempted to bake for the celebration of her and her sister's third decade, the event that marked the last time she had seen the woman even attempt to fool with pastries), but her words of jest were consumed by a disconcertingly familiar growl of menace. Empty eye sockets bright with fel flame crinkled with laughter under the demon's heavy brow as his malicious chuckle echoed over the ridge, bouncing off the waters of the lake below and ringing throughout Terokkar's forests for what sounded to be miles..._

Koriandris woke with a start, bolting upright as her thoughts swirled with panic until she realized where she was. The same cell, the same darkness, the same stale air—she was still imprisoned, but captivity was certainly preferable to the end of that nightmare. She'd awakened prematurely, far before the events that night had reached their dreadful ends, but she remembered quite enough to know that anything this band of distrustful and unreasonable (and unidentified) individuals would pale in comparison to the torture that had followed night. Demons conjured up methods of the wickedest nature, far exceeding whatever paltry interrogations were administered here.

"Kori?" asked Thalrien, his voice hoarse with disuse.

The mage hardly found the words to reply, her eyes still squeezed shut to repel the fragments of the dream that remained. Disorientation, terror, and elation all fought for dominance within the confines of her mind. Focusing on how grand it was that Thalrien was now conscious (surely a sign of improving health), she drove away the lingering memories and released the vice grip she inadvertently held on his forearm, the raised cuts throbbing beneath her frightened grasp.

"Bad dream?" he asked, his teeth gritted with pain as he massaged the wounds that marred the flesh of his arm.

She said nothing, bitterly silent as she rolled onto her side to avoid his stare of unease.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Our first attempt to flee Kael'thas' ranks," she replied tersely, hoping the explanation was enough for him. He would have remembered the torture that ensued, brutal punishment for what had been deemed treason, and he most certainly would not have forgotten the miserable return to their prince's service that followed their unsuccessful efforts at escape. (It was not until the followers of Voren'thal the Seer reached such number that they could not easily be hunted by the demonic minions of their corrupted prince that they escaped his clutches, seeking refuge in the City of Light to form what was now the Scryers.)

Regardless of whether or not she had answered his question befittingly, he quickly changed the subject, his voice strangely distraught, unusual given his typically unshakable resolve.

"When I awoke, you were sound asleep, and I almost envied you, for rest did not—_has_ not—come as easily for me."

"I would hardly call that rest," Koriandris mumbled, drawing his arm over her shoulder as she toyed absently with his limp fingers. "What thoughts occupy your troubled mind?"

She had merely intended to express concern for his current state, which was far from normal, but he did not reply, his soft, shuddering breaths amplified by the eerie silence.

"Do you think we're going to die, Koriandris?" he asked suddenly, unusually sober.

"I don't know. You're the profound one," she answered, speech slurred with sleep.

"But you're the practical one."

"I don't know, Thalrien," she repeated softly, her gaze fixed on the wall of stone that faced her. "Such thoughts…those are the ones I've been trying to avoid."

"We…we'll never see Quel'Thalas again…"

"Don't say that," she told him, her words less reassuring and more imploring.

"I can still hear the rustle of trees in the forest…I can still see the bright colors of springtime, the endless springtime; I can—"

"Thalrien," Koriandris pressed, her voice strangled by the growing lump that obstructed her breathing.

"Mother will be there! And Father! It will be like when we were young; we can leisure and laze about without the slightest care…"

"_Thalrien!"_ she cried, sitting up abruptly despite the protest of her stiff joints. "I don't make a habit of begging, but _please—"_

"Well, by all means, if we're going to die, let us not dwell upon the sadness and woe that has befallen us!"

She cringed, allowing herself to be drawn into his embrace, as she welcomed the comfort it offered. "We aren't going to die," she told him, though the comment seemed almost to be directed toward herself, as if Thalrien wasn't the only one who needed to be reassured.

"One of the first things you l-learn in combat training…is that you _will_ die, and you…you can't be a proficient warrior until you've managed to expect that you _will_ fall in battle, and have accepted that death is entirely probable," Thalrien began, stammering and choked with repressed emotion as he laid his head atop her own and buried his face in her shoulder in an attempt to conceal his sobs. "And th…throughout every brush with death, every c-close encounter, I thought I had done this, admitted that it was not only possible, but _likely _that I could meet my end in the midst of battle, but _this…"_

He paused, inhaling deeply so as to retain his composure. Koriandris shivered as the warmth of his tears trickled down the back of her neck, leaving a glistening trail behind as they dripped to the cold stone below. It was no longer the foreboding of the situation that bothered her, but how upset he had become over it. She had seen him cry enough times to count on one hand: once when she had (inadvertently) broken his hand while they were children, once more following the death of his mother, and again at the fall of Silvermoon. This was not to say he wasn't emotional at times (even exceedingly), but he viewed crying as a pointless and excessively maudlin display of feeling and therefore rarely condescended to do so.

"The thought that I might die here, captured and p-penned like a beast"—he spat these words with the venom that can only be mustered by the unjustly wronged—"…helpless to fight, even to change the fate that has condemned me to waste away in the shadowy recesses of this cell, it…it _breaks_ me. My w-will, the motive that drives my every action, is b-broken!" His soft cry of despair was muffled by the shoulder into which he wept.

"Thalrien?" Koriandris asked tentatively, as if hesitant to interrupt his grief.

"…y-yes?" he replied, heaving a shuddering sigh as he struggled to collect his wits.

"You remember what you said earlier tonight, regarding self-pity?"

He laughed at this, the melodious sound strangled and choked by desolation.

"Yes…but that was when there was a chance of survival," he said, sounding miserably forlorn.

"So our death is now guaranteed?" asked Koriandris, frowning discontentedly. "That is a pitifully narrow-minded way of viewing our situation. I would expect more of you."

"What conceivable outcome could possibly yield our survival?—nay, not simply survival, but a _preferable_ existence? Living the rest of our days in this cold, dank cell until we catch pneumonia or die of mold poisoning most certainly does not count."

"I…I have an idea," Koriandris began, unsure of how she would phrase this so that it would adhere to the "preferable existence" he had suggested. "But I'm not sure how much you'll like it."

"Does it involve our imprisonment or death?" he asked, the words scarcely tainted with sarcasm, though they still bore staggering authenticity.

"No. Quite the opposite, in fact," she answered, eyes narrowed with mischief and plotting.

"Very well. Enlighten me."

**Regarding the potential sappiness: I swear it's not my fault! I've been on a spree of Disney cartoon classics lately, so any overemotionally mawkish parts can be attributed to this (Pocahontas specifically, as this was the most recent in my marathon). Anyway, I don't write romances, so you probably shouldn't expect much of that in the future, but I believe my delirium may have seeped into this one. So, erm…here are my apologies, straight from the socially inept anti-conversationalist. I'm all done now.**


	5. Subterfuge

For Koriandris and Thalrien, morning did not come with the usual silvery glow of dawn or the blissful sunrise that broke over the jagged forest horizon; not even the twitters and chirps of the songbirds perched in the trees of the surrounding wood dared to break the implacable silence.

Though preferable to the suffocating darkness of night, the meager light that seeped through the shoddy drainage grate in the ceiling offered little comfort to the prisoners that shivered and shook in the cold dungeon below. The pair sat huddled in the corner, trembling from the biting chill and the stifling humidity that dampened both their spirits and the rags they wore.

"Up to your neck in bile and you've chosen to dig downwards," Thalrien muttered with a sigh of uncharacteristic despondence, abandoning the silence of his pensive thought as he acknowledged the flaws in his wife's meticulous planning.

"Do you have any better ideas?" asked Koriandris, exhaling with a shudder as she watched her breath rise in a frosty plume before her. It was curiously cold for a summer morning, but if the climate of the Outland was consistent in anything, it was its inconsistency. Indeed, its temperamental nature had quite startled the mage upon her arrival, as she'd experienced little outside the perpetual springtime of her homeland or the only seldom erratic weather of the bordering human kingdom of Lordaeron. While she'd grown used to it in due time, adjusting to the unpredictable conditions of this alien realm always provided a quite a struggle, in addition to the more obvious difficulties in acclimating oneself to a foreign land.

"I can think of several alternatives that would be more desirable than pledging ourselves to such uncouth, loathsome _scum_," he nearly spat this, so revolted was he by her proposition. "I will not be a slave again."

"Thalrien, you were never a slave," she reminded him, her tone almost teasing as if she were merely correcting the whimsical thoughts of a child.

"And what would you call the delusion under which we lived during our time in the employ of our Prince Sunstrider?" he asked, his voice suddenly free of revulsion.

"Don't refer to him as such," she muttered sourly. "He no longer deserves the title. How his father's ghost must ache for the unspeakable atrocities of his son…"

"You're bitter, Kori, and understandably so, but I honestly feel nothing but pity for the boy. He's hardly older than either of us, and…you know not the pressure he faces, nor do I. By no means would I advocate his decisions, but it's unjust to make so ignorant a speculation."

"I always feel incredibly unperceptive and narrow-minded when you make statements like that. Can you just quit being insightful?" she teased, forcing a smile despite the circumstances.

"Inopportune as it is at times, I cannot be rid of it. Just as you're forced to endure your oppressive introversion, I must live with my profoundness."

"Inopportune?" she repeated, believing thoughtfulness to be a trivial price if it came with Thalrien's silver tongue; it far exceeded being so painfully awkward in the presence of strangers.

"It is admittedly quite exhausting to always do what is morally just," he explained, laughing as he leaned his head back against the wall.

"Because you've always done what is morally just?" she teased, a nostalgic glimmer in her eye. "Do you not remember the time you stole the fireworks from one of—"

"—one of Lord Saltheril's parties?" he interrupted her, remembering full well the incident she referenced. "That hardly counts, Kori; we were children!"

"It counts, Thalrien."

"Well then, let us not forget who distracted the onlookers while I grabbed the rockets," he reminded her with a playfully pointed glare.

"I had no part in that!" argued Koriandris. "The distraction was all Anarri's doing! I just stood to the side and nodded encouragingly!"

"Of course it was 'Anarri's doing.' You blamed all of your childish mischief on your sister."

"And people believed it, too," she admitted with a laugh of reminiscence. "But that's because she constantly got into trouble herself."

"Well, I had no troublesome sibling to serve as the scapegoat for my crimes at the time. Whatever grave punishment I would have faced was wholly my own. In fact, I was quite sure that Father planned to kill me when he found out, if only because Saltheril had demanded it, but he…he just laughed, let me off with little more than a lecture," he told her, his gaze hazy with wistfulness.

"Really?" asked Koriandris, eyes wide with awe as she recalled her own punishment. "Mother banished both of us to our rooms for a week, and we received quite the lecture in addition."

"And I imagine your mother's lectures probably exceeded those of my father by a large margin."

"I would think so as well," she laughed, recalling her occasionally overzealous mother's tirades and rants with a small smile. "But do you see, Thalrien? There are none that are blameless; why would you put so much pressure on yourself to be?"

He stared at her with confusion, eyes narrowed with incomprehension in its purest form.

"Because," he answered plainly, "the righteousness that the Light demands is not 'blamelessness,' but making a conscious effort to live as one should, meaning that you must adhere to goodness in all of its forms, in all applicable situations."

She frowned slightly, mild perplexity furrowing her brow. "I suppose religion has never been one of my strengths."

"Yes, despite my fervent attempts, it seems my teachings never make it past the cold, analytical fortress that is your mind," he said with a hollow laugh, the poor veil that would have masked his disappointment; being such a devout himself, her lacking faith often created a bit of a morality rift between the two, but although he tried, she never seemed to respond to his teachings.

"And why is that?" she asked, already aware of the answer. He had explained it to her several times, but it was her hope that one of his sermons would provide some much needed reassurance to ease the tension of the present situation.

"Well, as my mother explained it to me, worship of the Light is founded on a triad of principles, each with their respective subcategories: faith, purity, and forgiveness. It is my suspicion your difficulty in grasping this stems from your intellectual nature, for trust and hope in the Light is founded not on the logic and reason you crave but the belief even in what cannot always be seen and tangibly felt. This is where faith in the Light is derived, but without this, it is impossible to achieve the other two; you see, it is essential that a balance exists between these, that an equilibrium is maintained. If you lack a firm belief in the teachings of the Light (the faith that I mentioned), how would you expect to uphold to the purity it demands? And while it is assumed that you will fall short of the wholesomeness, as, like you pointed out, none of us are _truly_ faultless, if you don't at the very least _attempt_ at carrying out a perfect existence, then how can you expect to be worthy of the forgiveness the Light preaches?..."

He continued on like this for several more minutes, continuing even after Koriandris rested her head upon his shoulder, barely awake as she drew her knees up to her chest in order to conserve what warmth she could manage. Sleep had barely graced her with its bliss when the distant click of a lock interrupted Thalrien's speech.

"Someone's coming," Koriandris mumbled sleepily as she jolted herself into alertness.

Thalrien was suddenly silent, his gaze somber as he rose from where they sat in the pitiful light of the ceiling grate.

"Are you ready?" she asked, disentangling her fingers from his with a twinge of regret.

"I believe I've explicitly stated how opposed I am to this."

"Yes, I think you have, but that is not what I asked."

He sighed. "I am uneasy, but I am prepared."

"Uneasy? What reason have you to be uneasy? Have you no trust in me?" she asked, the jovial comment intended to lighten his mood.

"Of course I trust you, but—"

"Good," she said, interrupting him. "As well you should. When do my plans ever go wrong?"

"…more often than not, in all honesty."

Under different circumstances, she might have elbowed him playfully in retaliation, but Thalrien's slowly worsening condition suggested that doing so would be an act of poor judgment. Even as they stood side by side, stiff with the anticipation of whatever was to come, he had to lean heavily upon her to support himself comfortably, despite his unconvincingly masked shame at this; though Koriandris constantly admonished him for doing so, he had a tendency to suppress his own discomforts for the solace of others.

She believed the deep gouge in the back of his left leg to be responsible for his immobility, a stab wound, if her suspicions were correct; even in the darkness of night, she had noticed the injury's astonishing degree. It was her assumption that the weapon that his torturer had brandished was coated in some poison or venom, as the blood surrounding, now stale and crusted like the rust of untreated iron, had congealed so that the bleeding was slowed. It would have also explained his state of exhaustion, which was peculiar for such a typically lively individual.

"Thalrien, hand me your ring—hurry," said Koriandris suddenly, her voice hushed with urgency as she hastily tugged her own free, hiding it from the sight of their approaching captors.

"What?" he asked, frowning with perplexity. "Why?"

"I think…that it's best they don't know we're married," she suggested, swallowing with some difficultly as he reluctantly handed her the gold band, a symbol of their matrimony that was so obvious it bordered on blatant. "It would be ideal if we didn't feed the notion they already have; better they assume us to be affiliates than spouses."

"How so?"

Koriandris was denied the chance to answer as the stone slab that served as their door gave a colossal screech, scraping against the rock of the floor as it was opened. Though she could think of plenty of answers to Thalrien's question (the most prominent one being that their relationship could be used for leverage), she was suddenly burdened by her oppressive social anxieties, forced into silence as several strangers filed through the door, led by the big brute of a human that was Bristol.

He had changed his attire to something that better suited the weather, but still maintained an outfit of the savage furs he appeared to favor, layered upon each other for warmth. The company that trailed him was quite diverse: three orcs, one even bearing the brown skin of the Mag'har, and a rather unintimidating green-haired man whose eyes were nearly level with the mage's knee (she assumed this was a gnome, but she had only seen them in culture and history books). They gathered along the side of their leader, standing defensively with their arms crossed over their chests or hands at their hips as if either of the elves posed a threat in their current states.

"Brought you breakfast," Bristol told them gruffly, tossing a roughshod sack of grain to their feet, most of its contents spilling onto the ground below (which Koriandris was _sure_ was not sanitary).

Thalrien nudged it with his toe, frowning at the overturned burlap that sagged with emptiness on the floor before them.

"While I respect your courteous offering of food, more than I'm sure some would have done, I would hardly believe you expect us to eat raw ingredients such as these; you may as well have fed us uncooked meat or a stalk of sugar cane," Thalrien said, in spite of Koriandris' silent pleas that he would remain quiet.

_That silver tongue of yours,_ she thought, wincing as the man approached them, features twisted in a menacing leer as he raised a hand in a gesture of threatening. _Does it never wear a bridle?_

"Well, deprive yourself of sustenance and waste away if you will, but I'd hate to lose a prisoner over something so trivial. Besides, you'll need the strength, if you are to survive what is to come," Bristol told them, his dark eyes narrowed in an ominous stare.

_What strength could grain offer us?_ thought Koriandris with a bitter frown. They were not livestock; surely they couldn't be expected to digest such a rudimentary meal.

"Until one of your tongues loosens, there is indeed more torture to come, each episode more daunting then the last," he continued, informing them of the imminent torment with unnerving nonchalance. "So I suppose that will make it your turn next."

He smiled genially at Koriandris as if it were merely an invitation for drinks at the local tavern, though she suspected whatever he had in mind was far more unpleasant. She cringed as Thalrien tensed, the arm that rested on her shoulder for support coiling around her in a protective manner that she feared would entirely unravel the plans she'd toiled over so painstakingly during the night. Whether Bristol ignored it or merely did not notice, Koriandris had no idea, but she was grateful regardless.

"Don't worry," he assured them with another maliciously cordial grin. "You've still got a while to steel yourselves for your suffering. As the leader of this organization, I'm sure you can only imagine how tight my daily regimen is; I have some affairs to which I must attend before I have time to fit either of you in, but don't fret—I should be back within the hour."

"Before you leave—" Thalrien began, responding to his wife's nudge, a subtle reminder that there was indeed something that needed to be said before the cruel monster of a man and his toadies continued on their way, and that she surely wasn't going to be the one to say it, not when he was present to speak for her.

"Quiet, worm!" the man exclaimed, the redness in his cheeks evidence of the growing ire that slowly leaked into his speech. "You had your chance to speak!"

"Worm?" Thalrien repeated softly, sounding more curious than offended by the abrasiveness of their captor. "I should think that, if you truly desired answers and had the strict schedule you implied, you would graciously accept what information I offered freely, without the cost of what valuable time would be wasted in my torture. Or at least that you would have the decency not to insult me."

The armored bodies at Bristol's side shuffled with anticipation, fists clenched in the anxious expectancy, as it was quite apparent to all that some punishment was likely in store. But Bristol merely raised a hand, indicating for his subjects to hold, and turned to Thalrien, eyes narrowed with hatred despite the restraint of his guards, which would have otherwise suggested mercy.

"Very well. If you wish to speak, then do so briefly."

"It is with the utmost humility that we would offer unto you our service, as we have been so generously deprived of anything else we might offer instead to free us from this captivity," said Thalrien, his teeth clenched grudgingly as he fought to keep the loathing from his voice.

Bristol stared for a moment, stunned by the proposition, and suddenly wheezed with laughter, holding his sides as the short, succinct cries of hilarity and derision rent the air like the bark of a rabid wolf. He paused for a moment as if waiting to ensure that they weren't simply playing a prank on them, and continued his maniacal laughter, stammering and stuttering as he gasped for air as he tried to piece together exactly what his prisoners had had in mind. His guards joined in the chorus as well, following suit as they clutched their sides and cried tears of mirth at the situation's supposed hysterical nature.

Shoulders set with indignation, Koriandris glared at the men, fully grown adults—whose standing bore some weight if the ribbons and decorum of their armor suggested anything—who were quite content to find humor at the expense of others. Running a hand through her hair, she clamped her jaw shut, her lips a thin line of white as she bit back the scathing retort that was the product of her irritation.

"Say nothing," Thalrien ordered, speaking in Thalassian for the sake of confidentiality. "No good comes from words born of anger."

Her glare was a silent warning to him, as she was not fond of being placated like her displeasures were little more than the tantrums of a disagreeable elfling, but she conceded, however reluctantly; his words were truer than she would have admitted.

"So you were serious?" asked Bristol, his laughter finally dying away to a breathless chuckle.

"Does the situation suggest that I would be joking?" Thalrien replied, the iciness of his words dulled by his genial tone.

"No, the situation would not, but the audacity of your request might," he said, crossing his arms over his chest to emphasize their proposal's improbability. "Would you really expect us to induct those accused of infiltration and spy work into our own ranks? If we've given the impression of being so foolhardy and weak, I apologize, but that's not exactly how things operate here."

"So…are we to undergo some sort of trial or something?"

"No! No! If I didn't make myself clear, neither you nor your mute of a comrade are going to be admitted into our ranks!" Bristol exclaimed, his amusement suddenly giving way to anger.

Koriandris wanted to point out that she hadn't been considered a 'mute' since she was a young child, and even then that it had been selective, as she'd never had trouble speaking in the presence of family and friends, but she figured the point to be moot and settled for giving the man a glare that quite plainly expressed her irritation with him.

"I know not what blinds you, but be it prejudice, anger, or suspicion, it has corrupted your thinking to the point of illogicality," Thalrien told him in blunt reply, his tone almost admonishing the human for his insolence.

"_Illogicality?"_ Bristol repeated, feigning awe that masked his impatience. "I've no idea how you came upon this revelation, given that you've spent only a night in my presence, but if you deem my actions _illogical_, then please—by all means, enlighten me! How exactly do you find my actions _illogical_?" He spat the words with emphatic repetition as a malicious glower twisted his features.

"Such suspicion and skepticism are not characteristic of a healthy society. Well-faring ones can function even without such stringent rules and demanding subordination; that said, you surely are in dire straits, and you can't possibly be in the position to decline any potential aspirants for such petty reasons," Thalrien reasoned, his lips pursed in a grim smile.

"Enough!" Bristol shouted suddenly, striking the wall beside him with a fist of outrage that silenced the room, the only remaining noise the sounds of his labored respiration as his clouded breaths veiled his face in a silvery blizzard.

"I…I've had enough!" Though his voice was still raw and hoarse with rage, the taint of desperation poisoned his words with doubt as his heavy panting chafed the air. "The matter is closed!"

"Brother, you are too harsh," said a silky voice from beyond the cell's confines, muffled by the stone walls. Koriandris stiffened, recognizing the voice as the Flesh-Weaver who had dragged her to her interrogation.

"Go away, Eliza," Bristol told her, eyes wide with surprise and frustration as he leaned heavily against the door to ensure that she couldn't enter. "I am…otherwise occupied with matters of a…a sensitive…nature."

"I can tell." The solid rock between them by no means dampened the sarcasm of her words as it seeped through the weathered cracks like venom.

"I'm busy, Sister. Leave me be," he ordered, though it more resembled a plea than a demand.

"How immature, Bristol," said Eliza, her voice dripping with taunting disdain. "I've never known you to be a diplomat, but it isn't your nature to so vehemently oppose reason. And yet you won't even allow me to speak my proposition, let alone consider it. You must be quite troubled. I might make you some soup when this is over, if that would make you feel better."

"I don't want any soup; you're a terrible chef," Bristol mumbled despondently, stepping aside as he allowed her entry, the woman slithering in like the snake she so resembled.

"Very well," she replied, ignoring the insult. "But I would still like to point out what you seem to have missed."

Though Bristol's expression was one of exasperation, he did not protest when she continued.

"We are, at the moment, at the mercy of our own prisoners. Not only is this embarrassingly pathetic, it could prove potentially costly. Which do you think will be first, the exhaustion of our food stores or the extortion of any useful information from our captives?"

Koriandris decided that if they kept feeding their prisoners like cows and mules, those wouldn't be of any concern, as she and Thalrien would likely starve before either. As a matter of fact, she was quite thirsty, and wondered when—or if—they would be watered, and how the quality would compare to that of their breakfast. She was certainly not going to drink anything if all her captors could manage was dirty sewage water or drippings from the ceiling.

"I don't know, Eliza," he answered, rolling his eyes as he waited for her to proceed.

"Exactly, and in leadership, nothing should remain shaky and unknown. It is a liability," she informed him, crossing her arms across her chest to enforce the practicality of her words.

"I don't have time for this—either make your point, or go prepare the whipping post."

Koriandris cringed at his words, hoping her fear would go unnoticed; while the recent trying times had hardened her threshold for pain, she wasn't sure how she would fare under the circumstances that a public lashing suggested. Being tied to a stake of wood and flogged mercilessly was bad enough, but to do it for all to see…

"Don't rush me; I was just about to sum up my ideas," she told him, frowning at his impatience. "My point is that, while it may deter you, it would be far more beneficial for them to be admitted into our ranks. Recruits require far less upkeep than prisoners."

"And slaves even less than recruits," was Bristol's tart and pointed reply.

Koriandris could feel Thalrien tense beside her, but still he said nothing, bearing his dismay with silence for the sake of their plotting.

"On the contrary, my dear brother," Eliza corrected him, the conniving glint in her eye glimmering in the meager light. "Recruits feed and clothe themselves, and have no need to be guarded. Slaves must be fed and watched carefully to ensure they do not escape. Do you see where I am going with this?"

Koriandris wasn't sure what reason the snake of a human had to defend her case, or why she kept glancing back at her and Thalrien, but she could hardly help narrowing her eyes in suspicion as the woman continued with her proposal.

"And you don't think that we would have to watch them as recruits?" asked Bristol, immediately seizing the flaw in his sister's scheme to expose her faulty planning. "It isn't as if they're alleged spies or anything like that."

"Yes, I suppose some surveillance will be in store, but surely less than that of a prisoner or a useless pair of slaves."

Bristol was quiet for a moment as he thought, the tenuous silence almost suffocating. Koriandris' skepticism was beginning to worry her as well, but the current circumstances offered not the slightest of comfort to the consternated mage.

"Eliza, you truly believe it would benefit us to accept these magic-sucking miscreants?" asked Bristol, his voice almost a whine, as if begging her to change her judgments.

"Magic-sucking miscreants?!" Koriandris repeated indignantly, finally pressed to the point of voicing her incredulity. "Why, you ignorant lummox of a—"

"—Kori—" Thalrien warned, eying the guards as they twitched with eagerness, their gazes collectively trained on Bristol like eager hounds awaiting the permission of a master to set upon their quarry. No such permission was granted.

"Silence!" Bristol ordered gruffly, raising a hand to stay his men as his expression of ire turned to one of exasperation. "These…these are your new comrades. Though below you in ranking…they…you must treat them as your own, as one of us." He said this through teeth gritted with resentment, his heavy brow lowered in a frown.

Eliza smiled a cunning, devious grin, folding her hands together as her eyes brightened with glee. "Perfect!" she exclaimed, clapping like a joyful child. "I'm so proud of you! To put aside your sadistic affinity for the torture of others so that they may not suffer, but instead join our ranks—indeed this is an honorable thing you do, dear brother!"

"Honorable?" Bristol repeated, sounding not at all amused by his sister's ostensible happiness. "Since when have you cared for honor, or the suffering of others? You're nothing but a selfish serpent—I don't know what you have to gain out of this transaction, but surely it was not purely out of the goodness of your heart (or lack thereof), of this I'm positive."

Eliza frowned momentarily, but continued her uncharacteristically bubbly chatter.

"Do be quiet, Eliza," Bristol chided, sneering in disgust. "You may not revel so much in your victory when you see what I have in store for these new recruits."

She paused suddenly, a single brow quirked in questioning.

"There will indeed be suffering, but not by means of torture. Seeing as they are now members of our organization, they are now subject to the rules we all must abide by…and if you do not recall, may I remind you what the punishment for interfering with someone else's mission is?" His tone was dark with foreboding, and his black eyes bore a malevolent glint.

"They…Bristol, they haven't even received their initiation!" Eliza reminded him, her forehead creased with worry. Koriandris doubted that whatever the beast of a man had in mind would be pleasant for her or Thalrien, but it did delight her some to see woman squirm with such discomfort, for once stumbling over her words.

"Very well. Then I bestow upon you the privilege of introducing them to our organization. Then we shall see about the punishments for their wrongdoings."

_Wrongdoings?_ thought Koriandris, her mind swirling with confusion. All she had done was pick up something that had caught her attention, and she was going to be punished for it?

At least her plan was proceeding somewhat accordingly, though. While it was only her intention to join the ranks long enough for her powers to be restored (therefore allowing her to teleport herself and Thalrien to safety), she wasn't sure how much of a problem the overly suspicious skepticism of their new allies would prove. If they were guarded like beasts for the entirety of their service, escaping from these paranoid tyrants would take quite a bit longer than she would have anticipated—or preferred.

"Well, are you coming?" asked Eliza, staring at Koriandris with annoyed expectance.

The mage blinked in surprise, discarding her troubles as she reluctantly followed the Bristol's serpent-tongued sister who led them from the confines of their cell, Thalrien close behind.

**That was a little bit of an abrupt end, my apologies, but unless I wanted to post a 10,000 word chapter, this was the only plausible place to provide a break between chapters. As always, thanks for reading, I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable, and my gratitude to anyone who takes the time to review, even negatively! :D**

** Question it All:**

Question 1.) So at this point, I'm going to go ahead and assume that this plan of Koriandris' that Thalrien so vehemently opposed was to join the ranks of this (still unidentified) organization. Now, WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD THEY JUST JOIN AN ORGANIZATION WHEN THEY HAD NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE GETTING INTO? They could have been pledging themselves to a cult whose goal was to end all life on Azeroth or something, for all they knew!

Hmm...death by torture or allying with strangers and perhaps living to see the day that they might escape? Idk...that's a tough one. ;)


	6. Speculations

Bristol groaned as he collapsed into the seat below, not even batting an eye when the wooden legs creaked in agony and threatened to give way beneath his weight. He had retreated to his own tent, despite the early hour, as the stressful morning was certainly deserving of a short nap; besides, the peace and quiet would be preferable to the noise and commotion of the campgrounds if he wished to sort out his thoughts. However, as much as he would have enjoyed some solitude and separation from the duties of a leader, he did not escape his responsibility here. His legs, propped up on the table before him, laid atop a mountain of parchments, mostly missives and miscellaneous reports from those requesting the service of his league of mercenaries (many of which were too low-paying or distant to pay any mind). Every one of them begged his attention, but he ignored the nagging crinkling beneath his feet, trying to put them as far away as he could. There was something else on his mind.

_Eliza._

His sister was troublesome; he had known this since they were children. She had been wearing the same cunning grin since she was eight years old, and the devious glint in her eye had been around even longer. In their childhood, she had never acted remotely malicious, save the occasional prank or practical joke at Bristol's expense. As a youth, she had never hungered for the pain of others, had never _longed_ to see them squirm beneath the torturer's blade or writhe in pain as they were devoured by dark energies.

In fact, the majority of Bristol's childhood memories involving his sister had been pleasant. How he missed those days. He still remembered how heartbroken he'd been when she was taken—of course, he did not allow anyone to see him grieve. Even as a thirteen-year-old, he'd had more pride than that. But if his parents had been distant before, they became completely absent following Eliza's kidnapping. Without his older sister to keep him company, he became completely withdrawn from the world. In time, he learned to accept his isolation, and eventually embrace it. It was during this time, the long decade after his sister had disappeared, that he became cold and unfeeling; it was during this time that he abandoned any regard for others.

Now he lived solely for the sake of prosperity, and to clean up the mess his parents had left for him.

With their deaths as unexpected as they were, no preparations for their departure had been made, and Bristol, the successor in Eliza's absence, was left to manage the failing organization. Obviously his sister had returned, only somewhat recently, but she was most certainly not the same Eliza who had been taken during a raid on their former headquarters in Azeroth, some eleven odd years ago. She was naught but a shell of her former self; like the husk left behind by a shedding snake, there was nothing beneath the paper-thin surface, but no matter how much it was poked and prodded and perforated, it still retained its shape. It was still the same scaly, ugly husk, hardly resembling what it had once been.

Bristol did not blame Eliza for her current state—when she had returned from her long period of absence, she had been quite estranged. In fact, Bristol had believed for the weeks following that her mind had been permanently damaged by the workings of the Twilight Cult, which was where she claimed to have spent the past decade (and the tattoos that left their lasting mark upon her face would have supported that claim, faded and dulled with time as the ink's color was).

But what frightened Bristol was that he _did not care._ Not in the slightest. Indeed, he quite wished that she had not returned, that she had never come back. Even had she been the protective older sister he remembered, never quite serious, but always kind and caring, he would have wished that she left. Such was the state of his emotions. This is what upset him, especially when these feelings resurfaced, as they did now.

They could typically be ignored, but at times like these, times when Eliza was at the height of her manipulative cunning and the peak of her wickedness, that the feelings were irrepressible. Though he was not exactly happy with her lack of acknowledgement for his authority (as she seemed to think there was some sort of co-leadership going on, which was certainly not the case), that was simply the outlet he chose through which he could direct his anger. In fact, he acknowledged that the rule of the guild should have belonged to her, were she not absent, and he would have been quite content to drop the burden on her shoulders had his pride not prevented him from doing so.

Given that he was never intended to lead the Hirelings' League, he had never been groomed for leadership by his parents, and he recognized that Eliza might be a better chief for the organization, if only because she actually knew how to control her emotions. But none of this mattered to him.

He just needed a reason to be angry that was not a fault of his own, as the true source of his anger was himself.

He hated what he had become, nothing short of a feral beast with malice in its eyes and ice in its soul. Occasionally, he would catch himself being extraordinarily ruthless, and though he would inwardly reproach his bestial nature, the realization only served to fuel his anger. And the inevitable guilt that plagued his mind when he lay awake at night only made him bitterer.

From time to time he would manage to stop himself before he did anything he would regret, and he would make an at attempt acting amiable or courteous to amend for his unkindness, but given that he had no idea what amiability and courtesy looked like, it often did no good to lessen the strife left in the wake of his fury.

The current flare that had piqued his fury was the whole debacle involving his prisoners and Eliza's unnerving interest in them. He had no doubt that whatever she had in store for them was for her benefit, as she no longer acted for the sake of anyone else, but he could not decide what she could possibly want with them.

Aside from the entertainment she had always found in taking his toys.

Torture not only served as a coping mechanism, but enforced a fierce reputation. No one wanted to tangle with Bristol the Ruthless, Bristol the Inquisitor, Bristol the Tormentor. Besides, there was no feeling better than watching even the strongest brutes and most cunning intellectuals stripped of all that makes them exceptional as they crumpled beneath his hand.

For this reason, he was quite looking forward to this afternoon.

If the night prior was just a taste of what was to come in the torture—or _discipline_, he had called it, so it would seem excusable—of the she-elf sorceress, this day might not be as bad as the morning would have suggested. Her companion had yielded far less satisfaction in his inquisition; he had not cried or begged for mercy, but that was fine with Bristol. As he saw it, that would only make it more satisfying when his will was broken.

_And on the topic of broken wills…_ thought Bristol, massaging his temples as he leaned back in his chair, relaxing as his stress began to dissipate. _It shall be exciting to make the little harlot speak. Chatter like a songbird, she will._

An undesired presence scattered his thoughts with its entry, sending them fleeing back to the dark recesses of his mind where he kept them hidden from the public. Eliza glided into the tent as if she stepped upon clouds, her gait as elegant as the words she brought with her:

"Brother!" she called as if she could not find him, her voice thin and shrill like that of a nightingale as she drew out the last syllable for emphasis. Like a nightingale that had been stabbed through the gullet.

"What?" Bristol asked, making no effort to mask his irritation. The chair slammed back to the floor as he sat up for an appearance of authority about which he knew she did not care. Not in the slightest.

"Where have you been?" she asked, thin lips curved in a subtle smirk of mischief. Bristol recognized that wry smile, so self-satisfied was she that she nearly could not keep it from her face. After all, she wore this expression quite often, this grin of plotting—Eliza was most certainly up to something, and it irked Bristol that he could not figure out what that something was.

"Where does it look like I've been?" he asked in reply, gesturing to his surroundings. The tent was by no means spacious, but it was larger than those of his subordinates (for obvious reasons), though sometimes the clutter made it feel as if it were the smallest. Wooden cabinets containing thousands of neatly filed documents lined one canvas wall of the tent, and the bed he slept upon occupying another. Then there was the long table that occupied the tent's center, its surface hidden by the masses of letters and missives that obscured the polished wood beneath.

"Holed up in your tent like a hermit," Eliza answered, wiping the grin from her face and adopting the cold, emotionless expression that conveyed only a small portion of the frigid contempt buried within the depths of her soul.

Bristol had seen how ruthless his sister could be, but as much as he tried, he could not manage to feel disgusted by her actions, even when he had discovered her abhorrent hobby that she had picked up in the Twilight's Cult. And if he allowed her to play with dead things, the rest of the organization would not dispute his rule—they would dare not defy him, would they? He almost wished they would, if only so he could beat every single one of them senseless.

_What's wrong with you?_ asked an appalled voice from within the confines of his mind. He was not surprised by the malicious thoughts that swirled about his head, as they were not unusual by any means, but it was rare that he actually recognized the malevolent nature of these thoughts.

"I needed to…think for a while," said Bristol quietly, returning his attention to the situation at hand, lest Eliza grow irritated with him for making her wait.

"Needed to think?" asked Eliza, dark eyes glittering with derision. "Or needed to run away from your duties?"

"It isn't exactly like you've made this situation any easier, as tough as it already was!" Bristol exclaimed, rubbing the stubble of his jaw with fingers that twitched with irritation and impatience. "I'm trying to keep this damned organization from running into the ground, what with the relocation and all, but none of the jobs pay well, and none of the people are close enough for the contracts to be worth anything! Renting gryphons from the flight masters to get there would cost about as much as the majority of these clients are willing to pay, and I'm supposed to keep us funded with my sister sneaking around like a Light-forsaken sewer rat and undermining my every move?!"

His fist pounded at the desk to emphasize his anger, sending parchments fluttering to the ground as they were shaken by the impact. The slightest hint of an amused smirk crossed her features for a moment, but it disappeared as it was consumed by her emotionless mask.

"Why are you here?" Bristol growled, his anger subsiding somewhat, though it was still evident in the redness of his cheeks and the sheen of sweat that glistened on his forehead. "Are you going to petition that I repeal the punishment I have planned for this afternoon? I'll have you know right now that I have no intention of—"

"Don't be foolish Bristol. I know how you enjoy your little torture sessions, so I wouldn't _dare_ interfere," she replied coolly, giving him an ostensible grin that looked so out of place on her face that it almost appeared to be painted on her features like that of a court jester.

_Yes, you would,_ Bristol wanted to argue, knowing that she had no interest in intervening in his doings today solely because it suited her not to. If it would not benefit her in some way, she would not have allowed it.

"You have your games, and I have mine," she reminded him, the wry smirk gaining some authenticity. "And as it happens, I have no interest in the mage. Do with her what you will, so long as you don't interrupt my plans."

"How can I avoid interrupting your plans if I don't know what they are?" he asked, exasperated by this conversation. Speaking with another had never proven so draining to one's mental health.

"I will see to it that you do not," she replied, eyes glinting with an icy stare of warning.

Bristol sighed, allowing his shoulders to sag with exhaustion. "Why are you here, Eliza?" he asked, resting his head in his hands as if he no longer had the energy to support it.

"I should think you'd like to hear the news I bring," she told him, her fingernails rapping upon the wood of the cabinet to her right, the same cabinet that contained the documents of past contracts.

"A potential client?" asked Bristol, his voice tinny with excitement. He sprang from his chair with all the liveliness of a youth, rejuvenated by the idea of such a hefty reward. He could almost hear the clatter of gold in his coffer…

"Yes, Brother. A man from Azeroth," she replied, appearing quite disgusted by his delight.

"Then why would you waste time with petty banter with me when we could be entertaining a customer?" he asked, eyes wide with anxiety.

_What if he's displeased with our lack of service? What if he leaves?_

"Relax, Bristol," she told him, her voice thick with displeasure at his joy. "The man has not yet arrived. He sends his tidings from Shattrath, and plans to meet with us at midday."

"Shall we meet him on the road to the city?" he asked, his brows knitted in a frown of confusion.

"No," she answered. "In the letter he sent, he stated quite plainly that he would be teleporting here. We need not even make accommodations for his stay."

"That's glorious!" Bristol exclaimed, suddenly giddy with excitement. A torture _and_ a potential client! Perhaps this day would yield some joy after all.

"Now, you go watch our newest recruits—they're at the dungeon—and I'll make preparations for his arrival. We can't try to impress a client with the camp being the mess that it is. I'll have Mazra'fon organize a party that can clean up the campground so that it receives the thorough scrubbing it requires."

"Should I not—" he began, wondering if their tasks should be switched, what with him being the organization's leader, but she had disappeared before he could argue. The cloud of purplish mist left behind by her teleportation was all that remained of Eliza, and all it sufficed to do was choke Bristol with its fumes.


	7. Preparations

"So, do you think you could make _my_ head small, by any chance?" asked the child, his tiny voice squeaking with hopefulness.

"Eh, no. Unless ya don' mind partin' wit' it," Mazra'fon answered, laughing softly as the boy raced circles around him, bursting with youthful excitement. The child halted abruptly, nearly pitching forward as he stopped to give a mournful wail.

"But don't I need my head?" he moaned, his lower lip quivering pitifully in the face of denial.

"Depends," the troll answered with a shrug. "How much longa ya plan on livin'?"

"Ugh!" the child exclaimed, clearly upset.

"Wha'choo want wit' a shrunken head anyway?"

The boy's expression suddenly darkened with embarrassment as his gaze fell downward, resting on the packed earth below.

"Ritzel says my head is too big…" he mumbled softly, his brow lowered in a scowl. "And he wants to do tests on me, too! He tried to get me to eat something that he said would make it smaller, but it smelled like dog breath so I told him no."

"Riztel tinks _yore_ head's too big?" the troll repeated with a husky laugh. "Dat gnome has da biggest head I seen on anyone dat small!"

"That's what I said!" he exclaimed, flapping his arms emphatically.

"_Mazzy_!" called a voice, its singsong lilt quite familiar to the troll. Mazra'fon straightened his back as he searched the crowded campgrounds for the one who called him, nudging the boy aside as he scampered away, probably to torment some other adult who looked too idle or bored.

"'Ey, Eliza!" he shouted, waving a hand to flag her down. "Whatcha need o' me?"

"Nothing too terribly exhaustive, I swear to you," she assured him as she approached. "But Bristol told me to—"

"Some tedious task dat ya don' got da time for, I take it?" Mazra'fon interrupted, his lips stretching around his tusks in a smirk.

"Not quite," she answered. "This task was assigned to me by myself, not my brother. But yes, it is 'some tedious task for which I have no time.' Just a couple of recruits who need their paperwork filled out. Do you mind doing me this favor?"

"Nah, I owe ya anyway," the troll told her with a shrug of nonchalance.

"How so?" she asked with a frown.

"I don' tink I coulda gotten rid o' Hovah's kid on my own," he replied, still chuckling as he gestured to the child from earlier, who now stood some distance away, tugging at the ears of a night elf who had been sleeping in the shade of a conifer near the clearing's edge.

"Well then, do this for me and I guarantee that you can consider your debt repaid."

"Mmhm," he replied with a sigh, scarcely acknowledging her promise, as she'd surely find something else for him to do before this day was through. "Who are dey? And where dey at?"

Eliza suddenly grew quiet, wringing her hands nervously in a display of anxiety that was quite uncharacteristic of an individual who typically prided herself in her composure. Mazra'fon narrowed his eyes in suspicion, wondering what could have perturbed the apathetic woman so.

"You know that…that elf you brought back yesterday afternoon…?" she asked, wincing with anticipation of the answer, the question hanging in the air as she awaited his outrage.

"…yes…" His teeth were gritted with anger, but his expression was otherwise impassive.

"…and her comrade?"

"Ya mean ta say Bristol actually let dem in?" the troll asked, his voice hoarse with stifled resentment. As the source of much ridicule and contempt from his superiors, the tagalong pair of elves held a low position in his mind at the moment, and his explosive temper did nothing to help his ire. The mage had all but ruined his mission, a stain on his flawless record, and the ally she'd brought in tow was no better. That they were now to be admitted into the ranks of this organization was absolutely appalling.

"Well, he didn't plan to, but I—" she started, halting abruptly as she realized continuing would only be detrimental to her argument.

"You what...?" Mazra'fon asked, pressing her to continue as a grimace of distaste spread across his features.

"I…" she began, her apprehension dissolving as her tone hardened into one of authority. "I advocated their induction, and if you would like to argue my decision, I will not hesitate to use my position of authority against you."

The troll shook his head disbelievingly. While Bristol was technically the head of the organization, at times he seemed merely a figurehead, with his sister's plotting and manipulation pulling the strings with such discretion that even altercations made right under her brother's nose often went unnoticed or ignored.

"Ya known me too long ta play dat card, Eliza," he told her, though his glare was too dull to threaten the necromancer.

"Just watch me," she told him, eyes narrowed with contempt.

Mazra'fon toyed with one of the decorations on his left tusk as his face twisted in a scowl of confusion. "But…why…?"

Rife with embarrassment, Eliza's cheeks flushed a vibrant and sudden red, her eyes locked on the ground below as she unnecessarily smoothed a tuft of hair that wasn't the least bit misplaced. The blush continued to spread as the troll erupted into a fit of violent laughter, his throaty chuckle only serving to further her self-consciousness.

"I see! I see!" he exclaimed, holding his sides as they hitched with hilarity. "You _like_ dat little elf-boy, don'tcha?"

"Beg your pardon?" she repeated, her cracked attempt at incredulity easily transparent.

"You like 'im! Don' try ta lie ya way outta dis one, girl; I know ya too well!"

"I…have no idea what you're talking about, Mazzy. You must've gone too long without sleep again, because that's absolutely—"

"Yes, yes, absurd, I'm sure. So ya didn' just spring 'em from dat death sentence ya brudda had planned for dem to gain favor wit' da boy?" he asked with a pointed glare.

"Assume whatever you wish, Mazra'fon, but if you aren't going to do this for me, at least let me know so I can go waste my time elsewhere."

"Hmm-hmm. I s'pose I will," he told her, still amused by the idea. "But I be _assumin_' nuttin'. I _know_ you favor dat lad. I should warn ya, doh: ya brudda'll have a fit when he finds out."

"I am his sister, not his child. He won't domineer who I can and cannot spend my time with."

"Will ya or will ya not heed my words?" he asked, his brow furrowing with consternation.

He was no fan of elves and their prudish ways, but Eliza herself had been a close friend since his own induction into the organization, when it was still run by her parents. That said, he had no desire to watch her emotional stability wither away as another taxing relationship left her nerves frayed with anxiety, if only because he didn't want to hear all of her troubles and complaints when it crumbled to dust as it surely would (if it even took root at all). She already made him the subject of most of her idle chatter, regardless of its true value to him, so he saw no reason to unnecessarily increase this by encouraging a misbegotten relationship between the two.

"I'll think about it. Now, please try to behave your best; I'll be in my tent if you need me, though I doubt either of them will be any trouble."

"Mmhm," he grunted. "I'm assuming dey still be at da dungeon? Or nearby, at least?"

He received no answer, as Eliza had already disappeared into an extravagant flash of light and a column of smoke by the time the words left his mouth. Coughing as he found himself glaring into the remnants of a short-range teleportation spell, he waved away the foggy, arcane-scented haze and turned to leave himself.

_Willin' ta bet she don' even know his name,_ thought the troll, scowling bitterly as he began his search for the elves he honestly did not want to see. He was half-sure that every emotion she had displayed in their conversation was fake and falsified, but he was not going to protest regardless. While he trusted that she would not exercise her position of authority against him given the length of their relationship, she had a knack for being unpredictable that made him quite uncomfortable at times.

He first checked the commons, finding no elves there (save the night elf who had been roused early from her slumber by Hovah's son).

Since it was on the way, he also poked around the residential quarters to ensure that they hadn't already taken to exploring the camp, perhaps having found their way here by some odd whim of chance. The quarters were mostly empty, as many of the camp's denizens had already left to complete today's contracts.

More likely they were just crowding the commons and chatting idly with one another as they gawked at the traveling merchants who were still setting up their stalls for the morning. Or, perhaps a few had left to do something productive _of their own accord_—what a surprise that would have been—and went to gather food or raw materials for the expansion of the camp, which was still taking root in the Outland. Most of the camp's residents were still too stunned by the transition from Azeroth to this foreign land and its harsh nature to bother with productivity. Distressing as this was, the number of clients that requested their service was pitifully low at the moment - evidently no one needed the work of mercenaries when demons and wildlife would pluck anyone who ventured past the fortified walls of a city past nightfall straight from the streets - so it was not as if they were pressured to complete an extreme number of contracts while they were still in the process of settling in.

His search fruitless once more, Mazra'fon decided he would head to the prison block next, where he had initially expected these new recruits to be found. Indeed, there they were, shuffling awkwardly as they stared at their feet, pinned by Bristol's frequent stinging glares of irritation.

"'Ey, Bristol," the troll began, gesturing absently to the elves as they spoke. "Eliza told me—"

"Yes, yes, take them. Please. I'm sick of their presence," Bristol answered, his voice scarcely more than an exasperated groan as he held his head in his hands. Both of the elves, these new recruits, gave him a frown as they bristled with offense, but they gave no further reaction to his insult.

"Eh, follow me, I guess," Mazra'fon told them, motioning for them to hurry. He didn't want this to last any longer than necessary.

They offered little in reply (not that this displeased the troll), but followed obediently, despite the air of unwillingness they exuded. He led them first to the center of the camp, to the largest tent where all the documents on the camps inhabitants and business transactions with every client who'd ordered a contract were housed. Also housed here were the only materials for writing in the entire camp, save those in Eliza's possession (this didn't upset the troll as much as it did others, as he was in fact nearly illiterate). That said, if they were to have a proper induction, they needed to have some sort of records archived here, just to keep order.

The inside of the tent was crowded, with a long table stacked high with maps dominating the center and several tall wooden cabinets packed to the brim with parchments and scrolls lining the canvas walls. Gesturing for them to be seated on the flimsy bench, which creaked in protest even when the troll barely bumped it as he passed, Mazra'fon began to rummage through the drawers and their annals.

He produced a few blank parchments, stiff with freshness and crisp beneath his touch, and a set of writing utensils, hoping at least that they were versed in a tongue he understood. If he were to make an assumption based wholly on their silence, he would have inferred that they could not, but he dismissed that thought. He did recall the mage speaking during the interrogation of the night prior, and he assumed if she could, her companion could as well.

The drawer, which had become jammed, slammed shut with a loud thud, startling both elves as the troll turned around. They hadn't even taken a seat where he'd offered it—granted the bench wasn't exactly large enough (or strong enough) to hold both of them, but he'd still assumed that at least one of them would accept his gesture of politeness.

_Let dat be da last courtesy I show dem,_ he thought sourly, frowning with distaste as he dropped the paperwork on the table before them, dipping a scraggly feather its inkpot as he leaned over the table to record their information, or attempt to do so.

"We begin wit' da physical identification portion. You first," he ordered gruffly, motioning toward the male elf, whose expression was quite a bit more placid than his companion. "What be ya name?"

"Thalr—" he began, interrupted by a silencing finger from the troll.

"Hold on." Mazra'fon was still struggling to record the date. "Alright, go ahead now."

"Thalrien."

"How d'ya spell dat?" he asked with a grunt, cursing the stupid elves and their stupid names.

He spelled it for the troll, allowing him a merciful amount of time to write it down.

"Need ya last name as well."

"A-n-e-t-h-e-l-o-s."

Mazra'fon wasn't sure whether or not he should have been offended by the elf's decision to skip to the name's spelling, as if this Thalrien were implying that he was stupid, but he dismissed it instead. Writing was a pointless activity anyway. He had far better things to fool with than _writing_.

"Mmhm. How old?"

"Pardon?"

"How old ya be?" the troll repeated, grinding his teeth with irritation. It couldn't have been that difficult to understand.

"Oh, my apologies," he said with a genial smile, pausing for a moment to think. "I'm…nearing the sixth decade of my second century."

The troll stared blankly at the elves, the quill that rested on the paper leaving a large ink stain as he waited for an explanation. "I am a fighter, not an architect. Proficient in combat, not math."

"One-hundred fifty-five," he clarified, frowning in a manner that belied the sureness of his voice. "I believe."

"Mmhm," the troll grunted, biting his lip in a grimace of effort. "Eye color?"

"Can't you see them?" he asked, his words not harsh or derisive, but simply curious.

"Colorblind," Mazra'fon answered bluntly. "What color dey be?"

"I'm a blood elf," Thalrien told the troll, as if this should help his identification of the elf's eye color.

"Why dat matter any?"

"Because the entirety of my race has—nevermind. They're green."

"What be ya height?"

"Six feet and two inches," he stated cheerfully, beaming like a proud child. "And a half!"

The mage rolled her eyes, giving him a glare of silent admonishment for his juvenile behavior, but he failed to notice, so she allowed him to continue in his bliss.

"Dat be da end of da physical identification. We now be movin' on ta da lifestyle portion," said the troll in a practiced intone.

"Lifestyle portion?" Thalrien repeated, his grin of pride giving way to a confused frown.

The troll shrugged. "I didn' give it dat name. Now, ya place of residence? In case something happens ta ya o' course."

"Shattrath, in the Lower City, but there won't be anyone there if you're looking for someone to inform of my death or injury."

"No one said ya'd be dyin'. Dat's up ta you. If ya were ta die, doh, where d'ya suggest we send our regrets? Immediate relatives or extended family?"

"Don't bother," Thalrien answered bitterly, his joyfulness dampened with grief. "If I die, I can tell them myself."

The troll frowned, unsure of how to reply. He wasn't really interested in the implied deaths of the elf's family or the overly tragic story that would likely ensue upon his asking, but he felt as if he should say something consoling. Shrugging inwardly, he dismissed the thought and continued.

"Uh, d'ya got any inhibitions, impediments, handicaps, tings o' dat sort?"

"There's, um…the whole magic addiction subject, I guess, but…" he fell silent for a moment, evidently not caring to elaborate. Mazra'fon didn't care either. The purpose was to gather basic information to be accessed by his superiors in the event that it was required, not to lecture aspiring recruits on philosophy.

"Anyting else?" he asked, sighing with exasperation as he misspelled addiction once, twice, and a third time before giving up and moving ahead.

"I have a severe allergy to mageroyal. Causes breathing trouble and vomiting," he told him with a grimace. "If that's of any note."

Mazra'fon could not have cared less, but he recorded it regardless.

"Education?" he continued, massaging his temple to repel the migraine that was beginning to throb in the back of his head.

"Nothing extravagant. I never had an inclination toward learning history or magic, or anything that required sitting down to read a book, but I attained a better knowledge of studies I deemed more practical; I was apprenticed in swordsmanship in Silvermoon City, by an elf named Aldusar—the "Bastion" they called him. And my mother, who was a devout priestess of the Light, instructed me in its teachings. I used to be quite a proficient healer, but—"

"Dat's enough," Mazra'fon interrupted, figuring he could've said the same thing in about seven words. In fact, he essentially did, as the note he recorded was only seven words itself (or eight, if 'heeler' was counted as a word).

Thalrien frowned at the interruption, staring at his feet in the awkward silence the troll had commanded.

"Areas of excellence?"

"Do you mean—"

"_Areas of excellence_," the troll repeated, deeming it too self-explanatory to elaborate further.

"That didn't really answer—"

"Obviously shouldn' include comprehension as one o' dem," he muttered, flicking one of his tusk ornaments as he sighed exhaustedly. "Where d'ya excel? Whadd'ya be good at?"

Thalrien was silent out of modesty, mistaken once more by the troll for misunderstanding.

The troll loosed a loud groan of irritation. "For da sake o' da ancestors, boy—what be ya occupation?"

"Well, I formerly served as a guard in Shattrath, up on the Scryer's Tier, but…now I'm here, and I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do _here,_ so I suppose my occupation is pending."

"Ya joined sometin' wit'out knowin' what dey expected ya ta do?" asked Mazra'fon disbelievingly. "What if our operation was da genocide o' ya own species?"

"We didn't have much of a choice, now did we?" The pointed comment came not from the polite and courteous Thalrien, but his unnamed companion, who had been so quiet thus far that the troll had forgotten she'd even been present for all of this. He almost flinched out of surprise, praying she didn't mistake it for intimidation. Surely she wouldn't, as she spoke so softly that she wouldn't have spooked a field mouse, let alone a fully-grown troll.

"Ya coulda done what we asked," suggested the troll, his voice a growl of annoyance. "We all saw da interrogation last night; if ya just answered his questions, ya woulda been released. Bristol's an irritable and often irrational man, but he be true ta his word."

"I _did_ provide answers for his questions. As it happens, he didn't approve of them."

"Ya don' even have proof dat ya spoke da truth!" Mazra'fon exclaimed, stabbing the quill into the table with anger of such intensity that it tore an inky black hole in the parchment and splintered upon the soft wood below.

"Do you have proof that I did not?" she asked, brows pricked in a glare.

"I liked ya better when ya was silent," he muttered, turning his attention back to the other elf, who was staring uncomfortably at the floor as the troll and the mage argued.

"Next question, please?" he asked, interrupting their quarrels. "I should like to finish this as quickly as possible."

"Mmm…" the troll growled, glancing down at the sheet before him. "Need a new quill."

"Or if you're adept with a calligraphy brush, you might be able to flip it to the feathery end and write in a similar manner," Thalrien suggested with a courteous smile.

The troll shook his head, his gaze quite vacant and empty. "Do I look ta be one who's 'adept with a cla-i-graphy brush'?"

"Well, the brush is actually called a _callig_—nevermind. You can just whittle the end into another point with a knife, assuming you have one."

"O' course I got a knife. I'm not a complete fool," said the troll, drawing a sharp dagger of carved from bone from his hip and doing as he was instructed.

The mage muttered something in her own tongue, likely an insult, or so Mazra'fon assumed, given the smothered chuckle of her comrade. The troll ignored her, though he was growing quite irritated; he hadn't the time to waste on correcting her insolence.

Dipping the new end of the quill in the inkwell, he heaved a great sigh and continued. "_Anyway,_ have ya had enough time ta ponder your answer yet?"

"I thought I already did," Thalrien answered, in truth not quite remembering the question on which they were picking up.

"Ya told me ya profession, not ya area o' expertise!" Mazra'fon exclaimed, wiping beads of sweat born of anger from his forehead. "I tinked elves weren' s'posed ta be dull!"

"Isn't everyone dull in the eyes of the impatient?" the elf replied, his tone bearing no malice, but the words sharper than a barb.

"Augh! Why d'ya vex me so?" he cried, burying his face in his hands. "Just answer da question!"

"Very well; I suppose I would be considered a swordsman, or perhaps a warrior. Or like a…a warrior-priest of sorts? A cleric?"

"Like da humans' order of paladins?" the troll asked, pressing the quill to the page so hard he feared it would splinter once more.

"Sure, but I don't suppose it's…exactly the same. I'm not a part of an 'order,' or bound to a group like the paladins. I'm bound to the Light, and that is all."

"I'm writin' paladin."

"I don't think the sin'dorei have paladins," Thalrien argued. "Though I think we should."

"Sin'dorei? What da—nevermind. What would ya have me write den?" the troll asked, narrowing his beady eyes in a glare.

"How about 'Acclaimed Warrior of the Light?'" asked Thalrien, eyes hazy as if he were daydreaming about the glorious name as they spoke.

"How d'ya spell acclaimed?"

"A-c-c—you know what? I think paladin should suffice."

"Good. Dat's what I wrote anyway," the troll muttered. "I be movin' on now, so if ya'd just step aside so I can speak to your harpy of a companion here—"

"Harpy?" both elves echoed incredulously.

Mazra'fon waved a dismissive hand, sucking a great breath in before beginning: "In all honesty, I know ya don' like me, and I don' much like you, so if ya could make dis brief, it would be much appreciated. Begin wit' ya name, please?"

She was silent.

"No?" the troll asked, confused. He was sure she could speak Common, as she'd had no trouble doing so earlier, save the slight stutter she'd exhibited during the interrogation last night, which the whole of the camp (including Mazra'fon) had attended. "Ya shy? Or d'ya just speak when ya feelin' like it?"

"May...may I have the pen?" she asked, her voice quiet but by no means friendly as she extended a hand to take the quill from the troll, who handed it (and the paper) to her with a frown of disgust. He'd assumed she intended to simply write the information herself, which Mazra'fon allowed only because it seemed more productive, but she only managed her first name and half of her last until her shaking hands could compose nothing but unintelligible squiggles. Dropping the pen with a sigh of exhaustion, she sat upon the creaking bench, drawing her knees up to her chest to reduce her trembling (which hardly helped anyway).

Mazra'fon grimaced, wondering if most elves were this sickly and weak.

"Ya sick? Ya need sometin' so we can hurry dis up?" he asked, wishing she would just proceed already. He would have rather just entertained Hovah's son.

"Unless you'd allow me t-to turn you to a w-withered, magic-drained husk, don't bother yourself with it," she answered, her voice unsteady as she wiped her clammy palms on her undershirt.

"Or you could get her a drink," Thalrien suggested with a nod. "That might help a little, and that way no one would die!" He beamed with pride at his proposal, frowning when it was not accepted.

"Da sooner we get dis over wit', da sooner you can go find something ta…whateva ya do ta fix dat craving o' yours."

She inhaled deeply, her lips pressed in a taut line of white that was only accentuated by the ashen color of her skin, pale from the withdrawal.

"My name is Koriandris Everstride—that's K-o-r-i-a-n-d-r-i-s, like I wrote it there, and the last name is spelled exactly how it sounds. I will be one-hundred forty-seven come this Midsummer's Eve, and I'm exactly five feet and six inches tall. My eyes are green, just like those of every blood elf, and I too reside in the Lower City of Shattrath. If I die, send my regrets to my mother and sister—"

"_Slow down!_" the troll exclaimed, still trying to figure out if Shattrath had two T's or three. She spoke frantically, her voice shaking with nervousness and the obvious effects of that addiction from which she claimed to be suffering. "Now, d'ya got an address for dem relatives o' yours?"

"No," Koriandris replied, exhaling in a shaky sigh. It relieved Mazra'fon to see that this interaction taxed her sanity just as much as it did his.

"No?! How am I s'posed ta deliver an unaddressed letter?!"

"Send it to Silvermoon—I doubt they would have left the city. But if it doesn't reach them there, I suppose that would mean that they died during the Scourge's invasion of Quel'Thalas, or sometime between then and now. Or they simply do not want to be found. Now where was I?"

She paused for a moment, counting on her finger the questions she had answered to find where she'd left off.

"Ah, inhibitions!" she exclaimed with a dry grin, devoid of any happiness the expression would have suggested. "I suppose it would be better to list what I can do without being awkward and maladroit. For one, I'm generally quite soft-spoken, but if I feel pressed to talk, I may. I assure you, I'm not simply an idiot who doesn't know _how_ to speak, but I'm very introversive and socially awkward. If I had my way, the only people on this planet would be my family and close friends, that way there was no one that I felt uncomfortable around, but I've been warned that just killing everyone off one at a time would be frowned upon by the rest of the public, not to mention a waste of time. In terms of physical inhibitions, as you can see, I'm quite scrawny, not exactly fit for athletics. However, I make up for my lack of fitness in the schools of magic, in which I'm quite proficient, if I'm not to be modest or polite.

"I suffer from emotional instabilities of an appalling sort—I'm not insane, I assure you, I mean, I'm not going to go on a killing spree or anything, but I'm more inclined to talk to myself than other people, and I'm plagued with nightmares and visions. Not to mention that these often prevent a restful sleep, only worsening my mental stability. And of course the…m-magic addiction."

Mazra'fon gaped for a moment, surprised by her talkativeness, given her silence prior. He hastily scribbled some notes on the page: quiet, scrawny, emotional, sikotic.

"You spelled that wrong," she told him, gesturing to the document.

"What?"

"Psychotic."

Mazra'fon shrugged, motioning for her to continue.

She sighed again, gathering her composure.

"As for education, I was apprenticed by his father"—she pointed a shaky finger at Thalrien—"w-which is how we met. He instructed me in the arts of magic, and provided some knowledge as to book-learning, though the majority of my studies there were done on my own. It isn't as if I needed help reading, or being encouraged to do so. (As I said, I'm not the most social person, so I spent a lot of time with books and tomes for company.) Additionally—"

"Ya coulda just said ya was a scholar."

"But I'm not, I'm just interested—"

"I'm movin' ta da next question."

"Area of excellence, was it?" she asked, her voice cracking as it quavered with unsteadiness.

"Mmhm," he grunted in reply.

"Have I answered the questions in order so far?"

Mazra'fon paused for a moment, comparing the order of what he'd written for her to that of her companions to verify. "Ya transposed da eye color and the height."

"Damn." The curse was quiet and lacking in volume, hardly louder than a whisper.

"Hurry up," the troll commanded, having hoped the interaction would not have lasted this long.

She had only just opened her mouth speak once more when two shadows burst into the tent, tossing aside the canvas entry flap with a loud swish like a gale. Eliza and Bristol stumbled in, looking quite disheveled by their worry.

"What are you still doing here?" asked Bristol, his voice hard and chiseled in an obvious attempt to conceal the worry that etched itself in deep lines across his forehead.

"Da surprise induction of da new recruits ya decided ta spring on me," Mazra'fon answered, frowning with confusion. Neither of the siblings were ones to openly display signs of worry (or emotion at all, as it sometimes seemed). He wondered what could have possibly troubled them so.

"Nevermind that—the archmage will be here any minute!" Eliza exclaimed, her tone frantic and hushed.

"Archmage?" the troll repeated, his frown deepening. "But we not done yet!" He glanced at the elves in question as the mage gave a soft moan, shuddering violently as she leaned against the table for support.

"What's wrong with her?" asked Bristol, the question more scornful than compassionate.

"Sometin' like magic—" the troll began, interrupted by Eliza as she dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand.

"We can worry about that later—right now, we need to worry about preparing for the arrival of Archmage Alturus!"

"It's only going to get worse," Thalrien informed them, eyes wide with fear as he knelt at the mage's side to assess her condition.

"Shut up!" ordered Bristol.

"Don't be so rude, Brother," Eliza protested, stepping between the stressed and fuming Bristol and the fretting and worried elf. "He can speak if he wishes."

"Why do you keep defending them?" he cried helplessly, throwing his hands helplessly into the air as his cheeks reddened with the anger at her defiance. "It's hard enough to manage all of this without you constantly undermining my authority! It's as if you're—"

"I was informed that you ran quite the orderly company here, but if all you do is sit around and argue like the petty rabble of Stormwind's gutterways, I may need to choose someone else for this task," said a voice from the other side of the cramped tent, punctuated by a noisy buzz and the tangy odor of arcane that saturated the air.

A human, dressed in the fine silken garments of the Kirin Tor, had materialized seemingly from nowhere, his entrance heralded by a bright flash of silvery-purple light that startled the entirety of the tent into silence. Smoothing his robes unnecessarily, the man, this supposed Archmage Alturus, ran a hand through his hair and heaved a disapproving sigh.

"You seem to have caught us at a bad time, my kind sir, but we would of course still be willing to fulfill your requests," Bristol replied smoothly, his voice surprisingly polite and pleasing.

"Should we leave?" whispered Thalrien to the troll.

"_Sit_," Mazra'fon hissed, gesturing to the unstable bench, which creaked under the weight of the larger elf. Given that the two were not exactly trusted members of the group yet, their presence could prove to be a liability, but it was not as if they could leave now. The troll could only pray their intents were honest, and that the hungry look in the elf-mage's eye was not directed at the archmage himself and the magical energies that surrounded him.

"But—"

"Do not interrupt," the troll ordered, hoping there would be no more to add on the subject; now that they were in here, it would look rude for them to stand up and leave in the middle of a meeting.

"Does your eagerness hint at desperation?" asked the archmage pointedly, ignoring the excess chatter.

"Of course not," Eliza argued, shaking her head as she stepped forward to attract Alturus' attention. Mazra'fon tensed uncomfortably as Bristol prickled with annoyance, though he did nothing to prevent her from doing so, knowing her to be far more elegant than he. "We are, however, known for the zealous manner in which we carry out the orders of our clients."

"That remains to be seen," came the man's tart reply as he folded his arms across his chest. "You've yet to hear my requests, and I assure you they are quite daunting. Not to mention long-winded. May I sit?"

"Certainly," Bristol said with a nod, gesturing to the bench where the shaken mage and her companion.

Alturus did not move, evidently waiting for the seat to become unoccupied.

"Get up," Bristol hissed, frowning with displeasure at the half-conscious elf who was in his way.

Her shoulders hitched with surprise as she jumped at the sound, malevolent as his tone was, but she obeyed regardless, likely lacking the strength to be stubborn. She rose with obvious difficulty, but managed to stay on her feet, despite her pallor and the labored breaths that the troll could hear from where he stood.

"Thank you," said Alturus with a frown that deepened as the bench gave a woeful creak. "Now, shall I make my proposition?"

"Proceed however you wish," Eliza replied, smiling cordially.

"Very well. Your relocation to the Outland has come at a very inconvenient time for me, it seems. It would have been far less dangerous for me to request your services without leaving my post at Deadwind Pass, but as it stands, none of the dullards that accompanied me there knew how to teleport themselves to or from the Outland—much to my dismay. That said, I should not like to leave them in charge of a demon-infested castle for too long while they are unattended, so I will try to make this brief:

"I was ordered some time ago by the Kirin Tor to head to Karazhan, the castle-home of Medivh the Accursed. I hope I can safely assume that all present are aware of this man and his importance in Azeroth's history...? Yes? Good. Now, after conducting an in-depth study of the decrepit ruins of his former home, I discovered a significant amount of evidence that suggests a demonic presence somewhere near the top of the spire. I would very much love to continue my research there, but I can hardly do so with demons and whatnot rampaging about the confines, doing Light knows what with their free reign. Not to mention the immediate danger they pose to the surrounding human colonies of Duskwood, which house a considerable number of helpless civilians, and the bordering regions like the Blasted Lands, which already have their hands full deterring their own demon threat.

"The guards in Darkshire refused to spare any of their guards to further my advances, despite my pleas, and the goblin bruisers in the nearby Stranglethorn Vale were too eager to haggle for me to hire them. Naturally, I proceeded with the next best option: swords for hire. Having heard tales of your organization's fame and prestige, my choice was an obvious one. I was quite appalled to find that you had relocated to the Outland, though, however reasonable the decision may have been - I suppose there is more work to be had here, but it did make my situation a little more difficult.

"To make a more concise point, I would like you to rid the castle of Karazhan of its demon threat, as well as anything else that might hinder our research there."

"_Our_?" repeated Bristol suspiciously, dark eyes narrowed with skepticism.

"My affiliations are irrelevant," the archmage replied, his voice sharp with warning that the man blatantly ignored.

"We make a point of knowing whose advances we further. You can trust that this knowledge will by no means alter the deals of our clients; we just prefer to know who's employing us."

"Very well," Alturus conceded with a grudging sigh. "I am an operative of the Violet Eye."

He paused, waiting for a reaction, perhaps of shock, or awe, or respect, but there was none to be found in any but the elven mage. She simply cursed—a rather breathless, pitiful noise, but a clear curse nonetheless. Mazra'fon frowned at her, wondering what about the archmage's loyalties could have possibly disturbed her, or if it was just an ill-timed remark regarding her condition.

Alturus grimaced at Koriandris, his features twisted with haughty disgust as he muttered about the depravity of blood elves, which set off a chain reaction in terms of expressions: Alturus had glared at Koriandris, provoking a glare from both her and Thalrien, her protective companion, who received a glare of caution from Bristol, at whom Eliza glared for glaring at Thalrien. And while they were all glaring at each other, Mazra'fon was standing in the middle, quite placid in the face of their irritation.

"Ya mind continuin'?" he asked, adjusting the shoulder straps on his battle-harness awkwardly as he spoke.

All eyes turned to him as the group's attention was returned to the situation at hand.

"Ah, yes. My apologies, I was…distracted," said Alturus, giving Koriandris one final fleeting frown before proceeding. "But as I am a part of the Violet Eye, which is essentially the Kirin Tor's special operatives, they have offered to pay the fee of your service, and have tendered quite a hefty sum of gold to me to give you."

He removed from his robes a bulging sack of coins, the glitter of gold shining beneath the stretched seams of the burlap that held it.

Mazra'fon froze, entranced by the enormous coinpurse, so large that the archmage required two hands to support it. "Did'ya tink 'bout puttin' dat in a coffer?"

"Pardon?" asked Alturus with a frown of incomprehension. "I find your accent increasingly difficult to understand."

Mazra'fon waved a dismissive hand, sighing with disappointment that was immediately alleviated when the visitor began to pour the coins onto the table, their soft rattle as tantalizing to him as fizz of alcohol to a drunkard. Much to his dismay, the growth of the increasing pile of gold on the table was halted abruptly as Alturus placed his hand over the sagging coinpurse. It was limp in its half-emptiness, one hand wrapped around the mouth of the bag to stem the flow of the coins.

"You will get the rest when you return—if you return, that is," he replied ominously, sweeping his long hair from his face with a dark grin. "But that's the nature of your work, isn't it? So I shouldn't have to entertain such thoughts, correct?"

He received silent nods of affirmation from every member present, save the elves, who appeared quite flummoxed.

"So I am free to go…?" Alturus asked, a glow appearing in his hands as he began to cast another spell.

"Not quite," Bristol replied, interrupting him as he brushed past him to paw through the cabinets in search of what the troll knew to be a contract. The archmage, however, just seemed irritated by the wait, heaving a sigh of annoyance as his foot began to tap impatiently.

"Sign this," Bristol ordered, handing him the contract and the quill, whose broken tip he failed to notice.

"What is it?" asked Alturus with another sigh.

"Just finalizing the deal and all agreements. It's pretty general. I doubt you would have any opposition to any of the terms," Eliza answered, stepping in for her brother to supply a more appealing reply.

The archmage narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but offered his signature regardless.

"I should hope you know that double-crossing an agent of the Kirin Tor would only prove detrimental for your health, so I have nothing to fear, do I?" His question was nauseatingly pointed, but both siblings and the troll shook their heads with noticeably forced smiles, the elven bystanders still wearing their blank expressions of incomprehension.

"Very well. Does that conclude our transaction?" Alturus continued, resuming the spell once more. He hardly waited for their affirmation this time before he disappeared in a bright flash of light akin to that which heralded his arrival.

"That was sickeningly prim," Eliza surmised, brushing some dust from her robes as her brother counted the coins, his eyes wide with childlike awe.

"As are all affairs involving the Kirin Tor," the mage spat, her comment nearly inaudible, and almost covered entirely by the feverish fit of coughing that wracked her woeful form.

"Silence, you!" Bristol ordered, dropping the coins back to the table with a clatter as he pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You and I still have business that we've yet to attend."

She frowned, obviously confused (or very good at feigning perplexity).

"Have you forgotten what you've condemned yourself to?" he asked bitterly. "If you are now a part of our organization, you are subject to the sentence for your crimes."

"S-sentence?"

"Meddling in the missions of a fellow mercenary is worth seven lashes."

"With what?" The question came not from the mage, but her companion, who wore an expression of utmost consternation.

"Discipline."

"Seven lashes with…discipline?" he repeated, his frown deepening with puzzlement.

"Yes, Discipline."

Discipline was the name of Bristol's favored tool of choice for punishments, public floggings and interrogations, and the occasional simple reminders that he ruled with absolute supremacy.

Mazra'fon could not decide if the mage's punishment was the latter, or if it was truly the atonement for her crimes, as Bristol claimed. That mattered little to the troll anyway, though he did feel a pang of pity for Thalrien. He seemed quite disturbed by this whole idea of his companion's torture, and the troll didn't dislike the man nearly as much as he'd thought he would. The elf was charmingly oblivious, but maintained a quick wit that belied his ingenuous manner of thinking, hinting at something deeper below his simplistic surface. But the Mazra'fon's contemplations regarding his feelings on the situation were interrupted as Bristol prepared his dramatic exit.

"Yes, I believe a few lashes at the whipping post will provide a good exposition for my announcement of this new project; we can finish the introduction later," said Bristol, grabbing the elf roughly by the arm as he dragged her from the confines of the tent, the weak struggle she offered hardly hindering him as she was hauled away, helpless to prevent whatever doom lay ahead.


	8. Discipline

There were some that were meant to be bound and gagged, to be tied tightly with a rough cord of rope around their wrists, mouths stuffed with a filthy rag; Koriandris was not one of these people, and she was well aware.

There were some that were meant to be rulers, some that were wise, kind, and fair, stern when necessary and just as gentle if required; Bristol was not one of these people, and if he knew this, he did nothing to fix it.

It seemed, however, that each of them was faced with quite unfitting circumstances, with the capricious and vile beast that was Bristol leading what Koriandris was still assuming was a league of mercenaries, and the mage playing prisoner. At least it gave her time to think, time to sort out the tumultuous storm of confusion and anger that her mind had become at the present moment.

Not that she could find anything good to think about. She swore silently as Bristol hauled her along quite carelessly behind him, glaring at him until he turned to notice.

"Stop giving me that look; you got yourself into this," he told her, his lip curled with contempt.

_Exactly how did I get _myself_ into this?_ she thought bitterly, breathing a sigh of hatred as she returned her gaze to the ground, watching the dirt part behind her like a wound that rent the land.

_Irrationality, _she decided. That is how she had gotten here.

Irrationality had led her to keep that damned demonic orb, instead of leaving it where it was, as any _sane_ elf would have done. Irrationality (and a bit of suspicion) had persuaded her captors to interrogate her for some crime she had not committed (or perhaps she _had_ committed it, but not with the motives of which they accused her). Irrationality had planted the idea in Thalrien's mind that he should rush gallantly in to rescue her, or walk in and politely ask that she be released, as she imagined he had done. Irrationality had given her the notion that allying oneself with complete strangers in order to avoid death or further torture was the best strategy she could devise.

And she could only assume that irrationality (or anger) was fueling Bristol's actions as he dragged Koriandris along behind him, intending to unjustly punish her for wrongdoings she hadn't even known were wrong when she was doing them. It certainly wasn't the 'discipline' he claimed it to be; she was sure of this.

He halted abruptly, the collar of the mage's ragged undershirt loosening mercifully as his grip relaxed somewhat. "Gather everyone."

His order was short and succinct, and he spoke with the authority of an officer to the soldiers beneath him, but no matter how much she twisted and turned, she could not see whoever he addressed.

"Everyone?" the voice repeated, the thick brogue identifying the speaker as a dwarf, albeit a very stunned and surprised one.

"Of course," Bristol replied tartly, his fist clenching around her collar as his grip tightened with anger. He waited a moment, leading Koriandris to wonder what was taking so long; she happened to be sitting on a particularly sharp rock and hoped that if she were to be towed along behind him like a sack of flour that he would at least be brief with it. "What are you waiting for?"

"Well," the dwarf began, his voice strangled with worry. "It's just past noon, so—and I'm sure you're aware of this—most of the campground is empty."

"Then why don't you blow the horns? You don't suppose they would hear " He said this as if it were so plainly obvious that he was being merciful just by not berating the dwarf for his ignorance.

"I suppose I could alert the guards—"

"Then do so."

"B-but…where would you like them to gather?" the dwarf asked tentatively.

_This is revolting,_ Koriandris decided, not sure if the insuppressible gag that followed was a cause of her disgust or the filthy rag that cut painfully into the corners of her mouth. The sniveling, fearful dwarf—which defied every example of their race she had yet seen—was annoying enough, but that he had been reduced to such cowering submission was repulsive.

It was as if the very aura he carried demanded fear, as if the man himself desired it, craved it.

_A leader should expect respect from his subjects, not terror,_ she thought to herself.

"Shut up," Bristol ordered, his hatred suddenly turning on the mage. Her frown of confusion quickly gave way to a grimace of pain as the toe of his boot dug into her ribs with a sharp crack. She winced, wondering if she'd accidentally mumbled a thought aloud or if he was just looking for a way to alleviate his anger.

"I don't speak your tongue, but I know derision when I hear it," he told her with a sneer, inciting a fit of painful coughing as he gave her collar a sharp tug and continued to drag her through the dirt behind him, evidently finished humiliating the poor dwarf. She had not even realized that she'd spoken aloud, let alone in her own language. If she were going to speak aloud, she would have preferred that he at least grasp the meaning of the insult.

Her ribs, which would most certainly be discolored the next morning, ached terribly, but the pain was stemmed somewhat by the comforting thought that he'd taken note of her disdain. He hadn't understood it, but he'd noticed it all the same, and it bothered him; she could tell by his mannerisms, his altered gait, the subtle twitch in the fingers of the hand that was relaxed at his side.

Bristol paused once more at the foot of the scaffolding they had stood atop when she had faced the public interrogation the night prior. He was still for a moment, as if contemplating how he planned to get them both up there, then grabbed the appalled mage by the shoulders and hoisted her over his shoulder, despite her kicks and muffled cries.

Koriandris was unfathomably humiliated and disgusted, as she didn't particularly appreciate the manner in which he was carrying her, but her protests dissolved immediately as he began to climb the ladder to the platform, taking her higher and higher…

She willed herself to continue fighting, lest he mistake her silence for submission, but she had no desire to topple over his shoulder and fall to her death below (though it wasn't quite high enough for that), so she remained still.

They had only just reached the top when a collective moan rose from the borders of the campground, which Koriandris could see quite clearly from this height, with the visibility during the day far better than it had been the night before. The cry of the aforementioned horns was deafening, sending scores of birds flushed from their roosts in the trees to the skies, the flocks' frenzied chirps and chatter barely audible over the thunderous wail. There was no doubt in the mage's mind that everyone within miles of the camp had heard the fluking call of the horns, even without such sensitive ears, which surely were not a blessing at the present moment.

Heaving a sigh as he stood atop the platform, he tossed Koriandris to the ground carelessly, not even batting an eye as she landed with a painful thud on the wood below with no means to break her fall. She struggled to sit up, wracked with coughs from her state of withdrawal and her aching ribcage as she wiped a rivulet of blood from her nose. It leaked profusely despite her attempts to stem the flow, and continued to drip down her face, causing her to splutter and spit and gag and sneeze.

Bristol grimaced, taking a step backwards to avoid having his shoes splattered with crimson.

"That was disgusting," he told her with a matter-of-fact frown, tilting her head in a direction that wouldn't douse him in blood.

"Forgive me," she muttered sarcastically, though she doubted she could be understood with the wretched, thoroughly-used rag in her mouth.

He lifted her roughly by the collar once more and held the serrated edge of his knife between her teeth, cutting away the gag in the most unfriendly fashion possible despite her ardent protests. She spat on the ground to rid her mouth of the taste of the cloth, giving him a pointed glare to emphasize her lack of gratefulness.

"What? No thank you?" he asked, holding a hand to his chest as if he'd been impaled. "I'm wounded."

Koriandris sneered and returned her gaze to the ground; even meeting his eyes made her stomach roil and her blood boil.

"W…what are you waiting for?" she asked quietly, her contempt clear even though her voice wasn't.

"An audience," he replied plainly. "But I'm a little bored as it stands. You mind amusing me or something?"

She would have slapped him were her hands not bound, but she could do nothing but flush a vivid scarlet and stare at the wood of the platform below in embarrassment and bottled fury.

"No? Very well." He shuffled awkwardly in the silence that was a blessing to Koriandris. That she didn't have to hear his voice, that raucous laugh, that gruff drawl, was satisfying to the mage; being quite the introvert, she preferred silence to conversation with strangers, or ill-tempered torturers.

Koriandris stared at the wide clearing below, for the first time since her capture wondering just where they were. The towering pines that bordered the campgrounds suggested that they were still somewhere in Terokkar, but the cloud cover was much less dense than that of Shattrath and the surrounding settlements.

"Nice, isn't it?" asked Bristol proudly, mistaking the scrutiny of her environment for admiration of the campsite, which was truly more like a village in its likeness, what with its canvas tents for homes and collapsible stalls for a makeshift marketplace.

It was actually quite beautiful, in a crude kind of way: the campsite was divided neatly into four quarters, all of which were visible to the mage from her perch atop the scaffolding. Each was distinctly different from the next, and she could only assume served a different purpose.

"See, it's all separated and everything. That's the residential quarter"—he pointed to the top left section—"where everyone essentially lives." It was littered with tents that were organized based on size and, she presumed, quality.

"I suppose since you're (however detestably) a part of us now, you will be given your own tent as well, you and your little friend both. You two will have to sleep with the recruits for now, but nicer tents are awarded to those who gain favor and standing with us. It's basically governed by how much profit you turn. The more contracts you complete, the more money you earn for us, and the more you'll be awarded in turn. Understand?"

Koriandris frowned, hoping she wouldn't have to stay here long enough to earn a tent like the ones closer to the center of the camp, which were large and luxurious, as far as canvas tents were concerned.

"And over there, that's the marketplace." He gestured to the top right quarter. "All sorts of travelling merchants pass through here, and they're more often than not quite eager to set up shop here for a while. They normally only sell food and simple wares, but occasionally one will turn up with some neat outlandish goods from the surrounding regions or something—I mean, not that food isn't good, it's great not to constantly hunt like savages—but it's always more entertaining to see the rare finds that they'll sometimes bring along."

She awkwardly averted her gaze as he chuckled softly, catching himself in the midst of his laughter and hardening his expression once more. Unsure of how to react, she just stared intently at the scenery below as he began to describe the bottom left quarter to her.

"The southwest quarter is home to the only permanent buildings in the camp, or the only ones so far, that is. We've still yet to construct more, as most of the able inhabitants are too busy with the official business with clients and contracts to bother with erecting new buildings. But canvas can't be used for anything. It makes for great tents and structures of temporary residence, but a forge's fires must be protected from the rain with more than water-repellant cloth, and expensive herbs for poisons and remedies kept dry

"And on the bottom right is the Commons. I suppose its main feature is the billboard in the center, where new assignments are constantly posted if you're ever looking for work, but I secretly think most of the residents just use it as a social quarter. That said, you may want to stay away from there."

_Was that an insult or a joke?_ she thought, offering him a small smile as he began to laugh at his comment, leading her to believe it was in jest. It was true anyway—if the area was remotely "social," she probably would not fit in there.

Frowning as her gaze shifted to the crowd that was amassing at the foot of the scaffolding, she wondered for a moment if the man talking to her was the one that planned to flay her hide in front of the entire camp. He didn't seem remotely angry or temperamental at the moment, just speaking in genial conversation, but just as she'd begun to notice this, his brow lowered in a scowl and he kicked a loose splinter of wood over the edge of the platform. It fluttered to the ground like an injured moth, disappearing from Koriandris' sight as it fell to the blurry ground below, her vision distorted by vertigo.

"Is everyone here?" he asked, addressing the crowd.

They replied with a loud roar.

"Close enough," he said decisively, lifting the three-tongued whip affectionately named 'Discipline' by its owner (or so he had told her) before him to incite another roar from the throng of people.

"Let this go as an example to everyone standing before me: this elf here, newly inducted to our organization"—he was met with frowns and murmurs of confusion; evidently word had not reached the majority of the campground's denizens—"has committed a crime that blatantly defies the code by which we live."

He was back to being sickeningly dramatic, and she once again would've liked to punch him with all of her paltry strength. It might've hurt a little bit, and that would've been satisfying enough.

"Seven lashes—this is the sentence for meddling in the affairs of your fellows, which can so simply be avoided that this entire situation is nearly needless, but it is best to learn from the mistakes of others, is it not?"

Koriandris grimaced with disgust, but the crowd seemed quite inspired by this. Or perhaps too afraid to display any other form of emotion.

Inhaling deeply as if he too needed to steel himself for the torture to come, he forced her to the ground so she lay on her stomach, his foot resting at the base of her neck and putting enough weight on her shoulders that it was quickly becoming uncomfortable and prevented her from moving out of the way.

Koriandris bit her lip and squeezed shut her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable pain.

She'd been whipped once before, and it had by far been the most agonizing experience of her life; not injurious enough to induce shock—which was a blessing in situations of such intense pain—but excruciating enough for one to feel as though it should. It could only be assumed that this time would be no different.

She heard the crack before she felt any pain. It was a ghastly sound, the hardened straps of leather and their inlaid barbs leaving a raised, red welt where it snapped against the skin of her back, which was hardly protected by the thin cloth of her undershirt.

She managed two more thrashes without uttering a sound of pain, but by the third, her skin had split, and the three-tongued whip was only digging deeper into the exposed flesh. His precision was astonishingly accurate; he had managed to hit the same point each time, which only worsened the pain.

It was merely a soft whimper to begin with, but upon the fifth, it was a sharp yelp, and the sixth was so strangled with pain that her attempt to hold back any sounds that belied her resilience began as a soft gurgle and ended as a fully-fledged cry that nearly resembled the mournful howl of the gigantic wolves that roamed Terokkar Forest.

Koriandris was quite proud of her threshold for pain, which had increased by a large margin in the past decade, but this far exceeded her tolerance. She was in no condition to withstand this; too exhausted by the withdrawal with which she was still struggling and humiliated enough to cry (though she managed not to do so), the mage gave up on holding back for the sake of her pride, wailing like the undead banshees of the Lich King's Scourge army even as her voice grew hoarse with pain and overuse.

And suddenly it was over.

She didn't see Bristol leave (he was not within her sight and she had neither the strength nor the desire to move to a place where she could see him clearly), but the platform swayed and creaked as he descended the rungs of the ladder, the crowd awkwardly silent in his absence. He'd given them no cue to cheer and so they had not, shuffling uncomfortably as a whole and dissipating only when they were sure that there was nothing else to see.

The elf almost wished they had remained, if only so their idle chatter covered up the sound of her pitiful whimpering and labored respiration. She wasn't sure how she was expected to get down from the platform, as she was still bound, and wouldn't have been able to reach the ground regardless in her presently condition of trembling and instability.

It wasn't clear to her whether or not she shook from the withdrawal or from blood loss, but she was still trying to decide as unconsciousness fell like a shadow over her mind.

* * *

"You're awake!" cried a voice beside her, sounding both near in proximity and distorted with distance at the same time as it echoed within the walls of her sleep-muddled mind.

Koriandris blinked blearily, the flickering torchlight burning her eyes even as she squinted against it, shielding her sight with a pale and discolored forearm. She frowned at her blurry surroundings, the shapeless objects bathed in the bright orange glow of firelight that slowly began to dim to a more comfortable intensity as her eyes adjusted to the environment.

Grunting softly as she sat up, she massaged the tender spot on her forehead, lacking a mirror but knowing full well that a large patch of discoloration had surely spread from her hairline to the bridge of her nose from when Bristol had dropped her on the scaffolding. She tugged weakly at the blanket that had been draped across her back and now hung loosely on her gaunt frame as she rose from the cot where she'd lain, wincing as the cotton stuck to the gashes on her back.

"You kept shivering," said the voice, now discernible as Thalrien's as her mind began to clear, and her vision with it. "I thought you might be cold…so I brought you a blanket."

"Thanks," she mumbled, her voice hoarse with disuse, though she didn't care to tell him that it had dried to the blood-soaked linen that dressed her wounds.

"How are you feeling?" he asked tentatively, taking her hand in his as he inspected the bruises on her wrists left by the tough rope of her bonds.

"Glorious," she replied sarcastically, offering him a small smile of reassurance. "Though to be honest, it seems that I fare better than you."

He frowned, glancing from her bruises and the remnants of her nosebleed to his various crudely bandaged lacerations and deep gouges, and simply shrugged, content to disregard his own injuries. "They're healing pretty quickly; I recuperate quickly. Good constitution and resilience and all that. Like an ox, you know?"

Koriandris smiled, amused by the comparison. "Thalrien, have you even seen an ox?"

"In an illustration in a book," he said with a scoff. "But some day I'd like to ride one!"

"That's quite ambitious," she told him with a grin, tugging absently at the skimpy dressings on his forearms. "…I'm assuming you did that on your own?"

He nodded, his beam of pride dampening somewhat as he grew self-conscious. "What's wrong with them?"

Koriandris smothered a snicker and shook her head. "Nothing at all. You did a wonderful job, given the limited resources and time."

"Time?" he echoed with a curious frown. "That was of little concern. You gave me plenty, and then some to spare."

"My apologies," she replied, though the smile that accompanied her comment was somewhat tainted with discontent. "…how long was I unconscious, then?"

"Well, it's nearly sunset now—"

"_Sunset_?" Koriandris repeated, eyes wide with awe. "That's—I mean, I didn't expect…that's nearly twelve hours!

"Well, only eight, actually, but—"

"By the Light, that's…quite a while! You must have been so bored!"

"Mostly worried," he admitted with a small smile. "But I made do with what was provided, in all honesty. You wouldn't believe how entertaining it is outside this infirmary!"

"This is an infirmary?" she asked, frowning with disconcertion. The tent was surprisingly stark, with no decorations that even gave the premonition of first aid save the cot she'd lain upon, which was somewhat medical in its appearance, and a rather bare shelf scattered with herbs and crude medicinal remedies.

"I suppose. The healer was off-duty for most of the day though, so…I did what I could, but I…it's difficult without healing," he answered, staring uncomfortably at his feet in awkward silence.

"That's still bothering you?" she asked softly, almost afraid to pursue the subject, as the answer was quite obvious.

Of course it still bothered him.

It hadn't even been a year since their secession from the forces of their since-corrupted prince, but evidently the Light had yet to pardon the seemingly unforgivable transgression of allying oneself with the Burning Legion. If what Koriandris understood from Thalrien's sermons was correct, the Legion represented everything the Light would have stood against, and therefore, when Kael'thas aligned his loyalties (and the rest of the blood elves, consequently) with the demons, his link with the Light itself was broken, and that of his followers as well.

For one with such a strong connection to the Light, having the more tangible aspect of that link severed had dealt a heavy blow to Thalrien's morale. If there was one thing he was good at, it was shrugging off emotional crisis like it was no more than a flick to the ear, but he had yet to recover from such recent devastation.

"I just don't understand; throughout my entire life, religion was always so easy for me, so natural, you know? And then…to just have that torn away from me—I've repented, and begged, and pleaded, but…it seems that forgiveness, like trust, is easier kept than regained," he told her, the furrow in his brow belying his disappointment.

"I forgive you," Koriandris told him, toying with one of his braids as she struggled to display some sign of sincerity despite her typical emotional restraint. "And that's all that matters."

"Sure…" he said, his brow still creased in a frown of consternation as if he weren't completely convinced.

"So…eight hours, right? That's a long time to be unconscious; you wouldn't mind filling me in on what I missed, would you?" asked Koriandris, eager for the conversation to shift to a topic that didn't make her so uneasy.

"Ah, well, you did miss out on a lot," he told her, his face brightening instantly as the burdens of sadness fled his mind.

"I'm sure," she replied, seating herself on the cot where she had lain earlier and encouraging him to do the same. He refused her offer, kneeling upon the earth below instead in what had to be an uncomfortable position, given the state of his injuries. Koriandris frowned, prepared to argue his choice, but decided to let him continue as he wished; his reasons were his own.

"Firstly—and I suppose you wouldn't have minded being excluded from this, given your inclinations (or lack thereof) towards things of a social nature—you skipped quite the conversation between Eliza and me," he began with a chuckle.

Koriandris pricked a quizzical brow, wondering what business that cold, emotionless rock of a woman had with the lively and animated Thalrien.

"She's actually quite intelligent, though in some fields that quite unnerved me. The fact that she isn't exactly opposed to necromancy (if you catch my meaning) was rather disconcerting, but once the conversation progressed past professions and hobbies, it wasn't terrible. She actually provided me with quite a bit of comfort."

"Comfort?" Koriandris repeated, still perplexed.

"Well, yes; I'm sure you can only imagine how troubled I was," he told her.

"Troubled?"

"Stop repeating my words—you can just ask me what I mean," he said with a frown. "And of course I was troubled! In fact, I will admit that I caused quite a scene when Bristol took you—I'm surprised you didn't hear the racket I caused—and I required a bit of…calming down, so to speak. It was better after your cries ceased, or they were no longer audible (I couldn't tell, but regardless, it was easier for me to become distracted from my worries afterwards)."

"I see…" she answered, feeling somewhat guilty for the concern she had caused him. "Well, now we're even."

He gave her a dry grin, nodding in affirmation.

"Anyways, after the whole ordeal had passed, you were taken to this infirmary for treatment, which evidently couldn't be managed—though I can't imagine what could have been so pressing as to occupy _all_ of the healers—so I stayed here to tend to your injuries until I was called to the gathering that followed," he explained, gesturing absently to the maroon-stained scraps of linen that were unevenly layered across her back in what she assumed was the best bandaging Thalrien could manage.

"So while everyone was gathered there, he informed us all of his meeting with that mage we saw earlier—Alturas, I think he was called—and how they would go about the mission, which is admittedly different than I had imagined.

"By this point, I had deduced that this "organization" they'd mentioned so often was a group of mercenaries, swords-for-hire, you know? But I'd thought that the contracts were optional, to be completed by whoever volunteered or something of that nature (and I was informed later that this was how this was typically the manner in which missions were carried out); however, Bristol announced that this was a matter of conscription.

"His was reasoning was that, because the organization's roots are still being established here in the Outland, and this excursion is bound to be a lengthy one, he needed the more experienced individuals to remain here to progress the mercenaries' standings _here_. That said, he ordered a sort of draft that included every one of the new recruits, that is, anyone who has yet to complete a contract."

"Thalrien—" Koriandris began, her eyes wide with concern.

"Exactly; that includes _us._ But wait—it got a little interesting after that. Evidently Bristol had made this decision without consulting Eliza, for she was quite opposed to the idea he proposed, claiming that this contract was too important to be entrusted to a group of inexperienced recruits. Called it suicide in fact, for the recruits and for the reputation of the organization, which would surely falter as news of the inevitable failure reached the public.

"Bristol practically blew up, came unhinged in front of the entire crowd. He was shouting and yelling and threatening her with punishments for insubordination, and he kept mentioning that she was constantly undermining his authority. Eventually he just ended up condemning her to our fate, saying she either failed or succeeded alongside us, and that on the chance that she _did_ fail, she (and the rest of us) would be greeted with naked swords and a hostile welcome should we choose to return.

"She seemed quite distraught, but she simply disappeared for the rest of the day—I haven't seen her since—and left Bristol to deal with the upset and riotous crowd. However, rather than yielding and acting reasonably, he threatened all of us into silence, constantly reminding us all of the sentences for defiance."

Koriandris, who was not easily startled, stared with wonderment at Thalrien and the news he brought with him, mouth slightly agape in confusion.

"B-but…how am I to defend myself?" she asked, not particularly directing the question towards Thalrien (as surely he had no idea), but to herself. "I rely completely and wholly on magic in combat, for both offensive assaults and protection! Without…without magic, I am utterly defenseless! I have no training in hand-to-hand fighting or weaponry! What if they don't restore my spellcasting to me by the time that we are sent to the accursed castle to carry out that lazy, good-for-nothing Kirin Tor puppet's will?"

"Do you not have your staff?" he asked, his brow creased with confusion.

"No, they took that as well," she told him with a frown of disappointment.

He shrugged helplessly, appearing quite dumbfounded as to how to approach the situation.

"…but this could be to our advantage," Koriandris began, her gaze acquiring a rather hazy veil as she diverted a vast majority of her consciousness into a pensive state of thought and plotting. "Of course they wouldn't intend to send me on their mission with no means of offense or defense, if they wish for me to further their advances, that is. Therefore, they will _have_ to restore my spellcasting, and I can teleport us away from this Light-forsaken camp in the middle of nowhere, back to Shattrath, perhaps! Inadvertent adventure averted!"

She'd expected at least some positive reaction from Thalrien, a cheer, maybe, or the acknowledgment of her brilliance, but he simply frowned, his sorrowful stare cast upon the ground below.

"This does not appease you?" she asked tentatively, part of her wondering why her solution bothered him so; rather than heartening him, it seemed to have dampened his spirits further.

"Of course it…well, no I guess it really doesn't," he answered, still keeping his eyes trained on the floor so he didn't have to meet hers.

"What do you mean?" asked Koriandris, narrowing her eyes with perplexity before she realized the gesture could have been mistaken as a haughty sneer or a display of disapproval.

Struggling to conjure an expression that wouldn't seem hostile, she simply reverted to her characteristic mask of indifference, the impassive countenance she so often reserved for strangers. An unemotional visage was better than one that could be mistaken or misinterpreted, or so the mage believed.

"I…I don't know, I mean, I've always wanted to go on an adventure, you know?" he asked, finally returning his gaze to hers, though it was rife with tenuous apprehension.

"Thalrien," she began, as if intending to scold his childish desires. "Have our whole lives not been an adventure? A series of ill-fated catastrophes, one after another?"

"If our lives a series of catastrophes, then we should at least be glad that we were given lives to live. We are far more blessed than you realize, Koriandris. Fortunate enough to survive the constant threat of the Amani as we roamed about our forested homeland as children; fortunate enough to have lasted through the fall of Silvermoon; fortunate enough to have been among the few that recognized the error in our prince's decisions, to have realized his corruption and actually done something about it.

"We could have instead lain dead at the feet at some brute of a troll or raised by the hand of the Lich King to be bound to that butcher's hell-forged runeblade and forced to fight in his army. In fact, we could have still been under Kael'thas' rule, playing stewards and servants to his new friends in the Burning Legion."

His gaze was solemn but steadfast as it fixed upon her, the soft jade of his eyes glittering with insight.

"That's not the point, Thalrien," she told him, ignoring his profound statement. "It's simply that we were a _part_ of those, that we experienced such tragedies! I'm too sick of disasters to just place myself in another."

"Adventures and disasters aren't the same, you know. If I thought this to be a disaster, I obviously would not advocate it. I've endured the same hardships as you; I'm just as emotionally drained."

"I fear not for my emotional wellbeing, but for my sanity…" she admitted softly, nearly cringing at the weight of her own words.

"Your sanity?" Thalrien repeated, frowning as his tone changed from protest to concern.

"Well, yes—you've seen my sister, have you not?" Afflicted to the point of hysteria and madness by the same visions that haunted Koriandris, her sister had fallen prey to fear-driven lunacy derived from her inability to differentiate between her hallucinations and reality. To discern between the estranged conjurations of her mind and what was truly happening before her, she had tied a strip of cloth across her eyes as a blindfold so she no longer had to trouble herself with recognizing the difference between the two. Koriandris had not seen Anarri since the Fall of Silvermoon, but she assumed she still wore the blindfold that had been associated with insanity by the rest of the city's population.

"Not recently," he replied sourly, momentarily seeming to have succumbed to the hovering fog of depression that invariably threatened his thoughts and those of every remaining member of his race.

She ignored the comment; she had long since become immune to the stinging venom of regret and longing. While she naturally missed her family, she found it far easier to occupy herself with trivial busywork to avoid the pain of longing than to actually cope with its presence.

"I may be 'fortunate enough' to have survived thus far, but I'm not allowed the luxury of forgetting such things, as you are. Each torturous endeavor that I face is one I must relive in my nightmares, the very ones that plague my resting hours," she reminded him, reluctantly allowing his fingers to unnecessarily smooth her hair as they did when he was worried.

She did not enjoy being fussed over, but her mind was still too foggy with withdrawal and unconsciousness (and now the added confusion that always followed any attempt at conveying her thoughts and feelings) to protest.

"I don't want to have to walk about blindfolded like the sightless beggars of Silvermoon's streets, unable to distinguish between visions and dreams and reality that I'm driven to the point of insanity. Anarri has already proven that such a life is not a preferable one," she continued, finally brushing away his hand with a frown of discontentment.

"And reasonably so, but perhaps if you would just—"

"Just what?!" she exclaimed, pressed to the point of irritation. "Just throw myself into another dangerous situation such as the one we face now to whittle away at my mental health until it has waned to near nothingness?"

"Don't twist my words, especially when they've still yet to leave my lips," he argued, his voice lacking her stern and rigid edge. "But consider the evidence: your sister, who had experienced half the hardships you had at the time of her descent into madness, is arguably insane, but even with all of your troubles, you're still considerably sane. Have you ever thought that perhaps it is the suffering that keeps you rational?"

"No, I have not, because that is an absurd idea," she told him with a glare, dismissing his proposal as she rose to her feet. She had intended to leave, which is how she avoided most impending arguments, but she promptly realized that she had no clue where she was supposed to go, and that Thalrien had stood as well, barring her way with no more than himself. And no more than himself was plenty.

Groaning and running a hand through her tangled hair, which had since come free from its ties, she returned to her seat with a sigh of helplessness.

"Not so absurd if you don't immediately dismiss it as such before even contemplating its worth," he told her, the truth that rang in his words stinging like acid.

"Do you honestly think that this 'adventure' will strengthen my mental resilience?" asked Koriandris, genuinely curious despite the skepticism suggested by her tone.

"I'm willing to find out," he told her with a hopeful smile, an eager grin that hadn't changed since they were children.

She could hardly bear to crush his optimism, unable to form even a word of protest as the weight of the decision pressed upon her.

"Very well," she said, conceding the argument to him in a rare display of compliance. "But the instant we finish this job, we're going back to Shattrath—understood?"

His grin bloomed into a radiant beam as his mortal shell practically burst with happiness.

"We're set to leave tomorrow!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet as he quivered with excitement. "I can't wait!"

"Tomorrow?" Koriandris echoed disbelievingly, the imminence of this much-anticipated adventure stunning her…and making her wonder if she would indeed regret this adventure as much as she feared she would.


End file.
